


221B Playlist

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humour, John getting a bit angsty at times, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Singing, lots of singing, some strong language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3659301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or what Sherlock might be like if the characters all sang. [Yes, even Mycroft!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Song

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! James Moriarty here! No, not really! Anyway the songs included in this chapter are- A House Is Not A Home [Dionne Warwick]  
> That Don't Impress Me Much [Shania Twain]  
> Telephone [Lady Gaga and Beyonce]  
> Umbrella [Rihanna and Jay-Z].  
> I hope you enjoy this silly bit of fun.  
> Any feedback is much appreciated.

A Study in Song

 

“A chair is still a chair, even when there’s no one sitting there,” Mike Stamford sang and John Watson, who was already walking quickly with the support of his cane, put a palm on the man’s back to try and get him to move that little bit faster. 

 

He was already rock bottom as far as he was concerned. Therefore he did not need people seeing him with a singing Mike Stamford and thinking he worked in a mental institution. 

 

But then it got even worse. They veered off and entered a room on the right and John had just made out a mop of dark, curly hair when Mike sang, “But a chair is not a flat, and a flat is not a home, when there’s no one there.”

 

John put on his best, ‘Yes, that’s lovely,’ smile and then when it finally seemed to be over he cleared his throat. 

 

Sherlock Holmes meanwhile rolled his eyes at the interruption, gave John a quick glance and then peered back into his microscope. A moment later he asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

And suddenly John was sharing a flat with the bloke. Not just that either, but on his way to a crime scene with him. 

 

When they arrived John followed Sherlock as gracefully as one can with a cane underneath the police tape, and then listened as a curly, dark haired woman yelled, “Freak’s here!” And he made to follow Sherlock into the house, but suddenly the woman blocked them along with a dark haired man who wore a blue protective suit. 

 

“Oh, don’t even”- Sherlock began in his most deep threatening tone but Donovan merely raised an eyebrow at him and sang, “Uh ow! Uh huh, yeah-yeah. I’ve known a few guys who thought they were pretty smart but you’ve got bein’ right down to an art. You think you’re a genius. You drive me up the wall. You’re a regular original, a know-it-all.”

 

Sherlock pushed in between them with a growl and John quickly followed him inside the house. 

 

Then as they made their way down the hallway he looked back over his shoulder briefly to see that Donovan and Anderson were still outside talking, before he looked at Sherlock’s back and asked, “Um does everyone do that? The singing thing I mean?” 

 

Sherlock shot him a dark look over his shoulder and didn’t answer. Instead he entered a room towards the far end of the house and said, “Ah, Lestrade,” as if he was really glad to see the man. 

 

It didn’t take long for Lestrade to notice John and he quickly looked at Sherlock, before he asked with one eyebrow raised, “Who’s this?” 

 

“He’s with me,” Sherlock replied firmly and Lestrade shot them both a curious, puzzled look, before he seemed to resign himself to not knowing and said to John, “You’ll need to put one of those on.”

 

John hurriedly began to put on one of the protective suits and when he was nearly done he asked, “Aren’t you going to put one on?” But again Sherlock didn't answer him. 

 

Then as they went upstairs to the crime scene Donovan skipped after them, Anderson in tow, as she sung, “Oh-oo-ah, you think you’re special. Oh-oo-oh, you think you’re something else.” And as they entered the room with the woman’s body she added with her hand on her hips and her head tilted, “Okay, so you’re a rocket scientist? That don’t impress me much. So you got the brains but have you got the touch?” 

 

John was almost relieved when with a low, guttural growl Sherlock closed the door in her face. 

 

Lestrade held down a smile as he often did when Sherlock was on a case and then watched as Sherlock went on to inspect the body. He was surprised when Sherlock even offered John a look at it, before he deduced that the victim had been writing the name ‘Rachel’ into the floor as she died-“Not revenge Anderson!”-And that she was from out of town but she couldn't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat was still wet from the rain. Therefore she must have come from Cardiff. 

 

“That’s fantastic!” John exclaimed. 

 

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock asked, though he looked a little bit pleased at the same time.

 

“Sorry. I’ll shut up,” John said hurriedly, whilst he felt more than a little embarrassed. 

 

“No, it’s…fine,” Sherlock replied and he really did mean it, before he recovered himself enough to have an idea and he winked at John, before he sang, “Oh-oo-oh, you think I'm special,” and John just grinned as his head spun, whilst Lestrade snorted. 

 

Then a moment later Sherlock was gone, swishing downstairs and yelling something about a suitcase as he did so, before John could even come to terms with what had just happened. 

 

And after an unpleasant warning from Donovan in which she told him that one day they would be standing over a body put there by Sherlock Holmes, John made his way wearily down the street, still with his cane, and tried to find a taxi, whilst he hummed the tune that Donovan and then Sherlock had sung. 

 

What with everything weird that had been going on it didn't take him long to work out that it wasn't just a coincidence that every time he passed a phone it started to ring. So once he’d shuffled into a telephone box, answered the phone and started to feel threatened by the strange man who apparently had so much power that he could change the direction of CCTV cameras, John decided to take a leaf out of Stamford and Donovan’s books and sang, “Hello, hello, weird guy, you called? I can’t hear a thing. I have got no service. In the club, you say? Say? Wha-wha-what did you say, huh? You’re breakin’ up on me. Sorry I cannot hear you. I'm kinda busy. Kinda busy. Kinda busy. Sorry I cannot hear you I'm kinda busy.”

 

There was a slight pause and John hoped that perhaps he’d startled whoever it was so much that the conversation was over. 

 

In fact had John been able to see the man’s face he would have been wearing a momentarily amused expression with a hint of darkness. But then the same cool, calm voice said, “Get in the car Dr. Watson,” firmly and as a sleek, black car pulled up near him John huffed a little, before he did as he was told. 

 

Clearly there was more to this impromptu singing lark than he’d thought and timing was everything. 

 

The journey was a silent one. He shared the back seat of the car with a woman. She really was rather beautiful but it seemed that she was too busy on her phone to pay him much attention. He doubted she would have been ruffled if he’d even sung to her. So he just sat there quietly. He did notice one thing though. And that was that they seemed to be taking a very long, ragged route and making a lot of turnings. He wondered if it was to stop him from remembering the way to wherever they were going or because whatever he was about to be subjected to wasn't ready yet. Then he wondered if Sherlock would be impressed by his vague deductions. Probably not. 

 

The car finally pulled up smoothly outside of a large, empty warehouse and when John, with his mind wishing that he had his gun and his senses all on high alert, wandered into it he saw that it was cold and bare; as far as he could tell anyway. For the light was dim and shadows seemed to cling to the walls like bats. 

 

But then, not in the shadows, but towards the far end of the place, he saw the outline of a man. 

 

John’s body tensed and he swallowed, before he drew closer until he was stood right in front of him. 

 

The man had copper coloured hair, wore a sharp suit and had his legs crossed at the ankles as he leant on a slim, black umbrella. 

 

John was about to ask what the hell he was doing there when suddenly music began to play and twenty people-ten of them women-all dressed in black, cart-wheeled towards them from the sides, until they were stood in two neat rows behind the man. 

 

And John, trying not to look as if he was intimidated, stayed where he was. 

 

Even when the people behind the man began to rap, “Yeah, Anthea. Good girl gone bad. Take three, action.”

 

And then the front row parted and the back row filed forwards, before they sang, “No clouds in my storms. Let it rain, I hydroplane into fame. Comin’ down like the Dow Jones. When the clouds come, we gone.”

 

John forced his gaze away from them for a moment to look at the man in the suit, but he just smiled at him with thin lips in a satisfied kind of manner. 

 

Then the back row, which was now the front row, formed a triangle and the man at the front of the triangle sung, “We Roc-A-Fellas. We fly higher than weather. And she flies it better.”

 

Then he did a cartwheel and went off to the side, before he ran to join the back row and then everyone except the suited man sang, “You know me, in anticipation for precipitation. Stack chips for the rainy day. Jay, Rain Man is back with Little Miss Sunshine. Anthea, where you at?”

 

John jumped out of his frozen and resolute state as a female voice sang from right behind him, “You had my heart, and we’ll never be worlds apart,” before she went to stroke a manicured hand diagonally across the copper-haired man’s chest. And then as her hand parted contact she continued, “Maybe in magazines, but you’ll still be my star. Baby ‘cause in the dark, you can’t see shining cars. And that’s when you need me there. With you, I’ll always share.” Then she put a hand on her hip, before she did a twirl with both hands almost clasped and raised to the roof as she sang, “Because when the sun shines, we’ll shine together. Told you I’ll be here forever. Said I’ll always be your friend. Took an oath, I’ma stick it out to the end.”

 

John watched her but then something pulled him forwards slightly and as he looked down he saw that the copper-haired man had looped the curve of his umbrella handle around his wrist. Then, in the next moment, he used it to pull John close, so that their bodies were almost touching, before he sang, “Now that it’s raining more than ever. Know that we’ll still have each other. You can stand under my umbrella. You can stand under my umbrella.”

 

John’s lips formed an even line and his shoulders squared in determination, whilst his eyes blinked twice and then stared hard into the other man’s blue eyes. For even though he was more than a little uncomfortable he was determined to show it as little as possible and to not move away until it was over. Whoever this man was he would not beat him. 

 

But the man seemed to share similar sentiments for with a quick smirk he released John’s wrist, put up the umbrella so that it covered both of their heads and Anthea circled them as she sang, “Ella ella, ay, ay, ay.”

 

“Under my umbrella,” the man said more softly. 

 

“Ella ella, ay, ay, ay,” Anthea continued. 

 

“Under my umbrella,” the man murmured. 

 

“Ella ella, ay, ay, ay,” Anthea sang in a lower tone. 

 

“Under my umbrella,” the man said in a soft whisper and the heat from his breath grazed against John’s neck uncomfortably. 

 

“Ella ella, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay,” and as Anthea’s words faded out and the music stopped John jerked away from the man and the man closed his umbrella with a frown. 

 

Then he looked at John and said delicately, “Two can play that game, Dr Watson.”

 

“So I see,” John said stiffly. 

 

And when John had finished telling the man that no, he would not take money to spy on Sherlock and finished getting interrupted as he was doing so by Sherlock, via text, he was finally taken back to 221B Baker Street. 

 

Of course on his way he stopped to pick up his gun. For there was no way he was risking being without it again. Not with all this singing going on. 

 

But when he climbed the stairs and saw Sherlock stretched out across the settee, his hands clasped together, he was quickly roped into sending a text for the man. Then when he got round to telling his flat mate about the strange man and the even stranger performance Sherlock merely asked, “Did you film it on your phone?” 

 

John shook his head incredulously.

 

“Shame,” Sherlock replied, before he stretched in a cat-like fashion and sat up properly. “We could have put it on YouTube,” he added and he was about to stand up but then something about John’s expression made him falter and ask with darkened eyes, “It was the umbrella song wasn’t it?” 

 

“How do you know?” John asked, quickly wondering if anything about the way he was standing had given anything away. 

 

But Sherlock merely said, “He did it before with…” and then as he trailed off his eyes narrowed and he asked, “Did he stroke your hair?” 

 

John, feeling alarmed now, quickly blurted out, “No!” before he asked in a slightly lower tone, “Sherlock, who was that man?” 

 

Sherlock seemed to contemplate the matter for a moment, before he settled on, “My arch-enemy.”

 

John was about to ask whether people actually had those in real-life but then another, more seemingly important, question came to him, so he asked, “And why would your arch-enemy stroke my hair?” 

 

“It’s what he did with Lestrade,” Sherlock shrugged and John looked even more puzzled and taken aback now but then Sherlock asked, “Did you at least take the money he offered you?” and when John shook his head Sherlock sighed a little and John looked at him in a bewildered fashion until Sherlock chose to add, “We could have split it. Think it through next time.” 

 

And then he stood and pulled out a pink suitcase onto the small, coffee table and John forgot about the strange man and the even stranger performance and just stared at it. 

 

Then, “Is that the missing suitcase?” he asked. 

 

The events that followed were filled with bursts of emotion. John felt awkward at the restaurant when Sherlock seemed to think he was coming on to him, which he definitely wasn't by the way! Then he felt exhilarated during the chase. Joyous as he laughed with Sherlock back at 221B and during the event of his forgotten cane. A little incredulous through the fake drugs bust and the three-patch problem. Focused when it was discovered that Rachel was the victim’s e-mail address password and that the victim had planted her phone on the killer so that he could be traced by GPS. Scared of losing everything he’d only just got when he was trying to find Sherlock and the cab driver. Relieved, though he would barely admit it to himself, let alone anyone else when Sherlock was okay and at Sherlock’s realization. Amused by the shock blanket. And a little bemused when he had another run-in with the suited, copper-haired man, this time with Sherlock present, and discovered that the man was actually Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft. 

 

*

 

John was asleep and Sherlock was in his own room that night, or morning depending on which way you looked at it, lying on his bed, with his body turned to the side and the sheets halfway down his hip, whilst he texted: Do you have to kidnap everyone I meet more than once? SH.

 

Protocol, Sherlock, protocol. Mycroft. 

 

Sherlock huffed a little and then he quickly texted back: Well, I suppose I should be grateful that you didn’t touch this one inappropriately. SH.

 

Rather childish of you to bring that up again, don’t you think? As I told you before, my hand accidentally came into contact with D.I Lestrade’s hair when I was taking down my umbrella. Mycroft. 

 

Sherlock snorted now and then texted back: If it was such an accident then why do you feel the need to defend yourself? SH. 

 

There came no reply and Sherlock, when he realized that he wouldn’t be getting one, huffed and threw his phone down onto the floor, before he kicked at his sheets a little, turned around and tried to get to sleep. 

 

And when John got around to typing up everything on his blog, he added at the end of his entry: By the way does everyone sing whenever and wherever now? Or is this some weird trend that infiltrated London when I was away?


	2. Price Tag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have some Greg and Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is Price Tag by Jessie J and B.o.B.  
> Enjoy.

Price Tag

 

Lestrade had a headache. He’d got up late and thrown his alarm clock, that hadn't gone off, against the wall in punishment. Then he’d swore when it had broken because of said impact and darted around as he got dressed, nearly tripped as he put his trousers on and ran a quick comb through his hair, before he’d stumbled downstairs and left without any breakfast. 

 

When he finally arrived at work he jogged upstairs and nodded and mumbled brief words of acknowledgement to anyone he recognized, before he arrived at the appropriate landing and pushed the double doors down the hallway open. 

 

Donovan was sitting at her desk and after he asked her if anything had come in she told him that Dimmock was out on a case with the Freak. Lestrade swore and hoped that neither would have killed the other by the end of the day. 

 

Then he began to turn to go towards his office, but-

 

“Um, I’d get something to eat if you haven’t already Sir,” Donovan said warningly. 

 

Lestrade turned to her with a puzzled look upon his face. 

 

So Donovan jerked her head towards his office and said, “You have a visitor.”

 

“Visitor?” Lestrade questioned, his brow furrowed, before he turned and stood on his tiptoes to see through the gap in the blinds in his office. Then he swore again as he saw the back of Mycroft Holmes’ head. Immediately he asked, “What does he want?” to Donovan in a whiny kind of voice. 

 

She looked a bit amused by his tone, no scratch that, very amused, before she shrugged and said, “Probably part of your weekly check-up Sir.”

 

Lestrade smirked a little at that. It sounded like Mycroft was his doctor or something. Then he mumbled incoherently to himself for a moment, resigned himself to his fate and strode into his office. 

 

Mycroft got up and turned towards him in an instant, before he offered his hand. Then, “Ah, Detective Inspector, I was just about to leave,” he said. 

 

Lestrade bowed his head a little, for he suddenly felt as if he was at a Headmaster’s office rather than a doctor’s. Then he shook Mycroft’s proffered hand and went to sit behind his desk. 

 

For a moment Mycroft just looked at him and Lestrade, who quickly felt uncomfortable, asked, “What can I do for you, Mr Holmes?”

 

Mycroft shifted in his seat for a moment, then he fiddled a little with the handle of his umbrella and replied, “I was merely here to ask about what kind of cases Sherlock has been on recently.”

 

Lestrade felt immediately uncomfortable at this. For he hated when Mycroft asked that. Lestrade was perfectly aware of the fact that Mycroft was a clever man and not only that but a clever man with access to CCTV cameras. So surely he could work out what Sherlock had been up to by himself?

 

“Of course,” Mycroft began and Lestrade jerked out of his thought, “I could come to certain conclusions by myself through various footage, but I am a busy man Detective Inspector.”

 

“Of course,” Lestrade parroted, before he shuffled a few bits of paperwork on his desk for something to do as he wondered if Mycroft could read his mind all the time or not. 

 

Then as Mycroft listened intently he began to explain the last case he’d seen Sherlock on, that of the nun and the man dressed as a frog-when Mycroft’s mobile buzzed. 

 

“Excuse me,” Mycroft murmured and Lestrade nodded and waited as Mycroft fished out his mobile from the pocket of his suit, tapped a button and stared down at it. 

 

Then he watched as Mycroft’s blue eyes widened a touch and one eyebrow rose. 

 

A moment later Mycroft looked up and said, “It’s a piece of footage from this morning. My PA sent it. She says that you, might, find it, ah, somewhat amusing,” and now he held the phone across the desk. 

 

Lerstrade took it gingerly and held it horizontally in his hand, before he tapped the play button with his thumb. 

 

The footage was a little grainy but it clearly showed Sherlock and John at an investment bank. There stood another man by them and he held out what looked like a cheque towards Sherlock. Sherlock looked at it in slight disgust, as if it wasn't an attractive enough figure, and then as Lestrade adjusted the volume he let out a kind of incredulous grunt as Sherlock sang, “Seems like everybody’s got a price, I wonder how they sleep at night. When the sale comes first and the truth comes second”-

 

John jostled the consulting detective on the side now and said, “Shut up Sherlock!” as all the while he kept a fake grin on his face. 

 

But Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders, which made John’s body stiffen, before Sherlock sang, “Just stop, for a minute and smile.”

 

“That’s what I'm trying to do Sherlock!” John growled and he rolled his eyes as Sherlock let go of him. 

 

Then Sherlock gestured to the other man that they were with and sang, “Why is everybody so serious! Acting so damn mysterious”-

 

“You can talk with your big coat and those damn”- John began but Sherlock cut him off. 

 

“You got your shades on your eyes,” and now Sherlock gestured to the man’s eyes and then to a woman that walked past as he added, “And your heels so high that you can’t even have a good time.”

 

Then all the men and women around them stopped what they were doing, turned to the entrance of the place and then sang as they held their briefcases in the air, “Everybody look to their left, yeah.” Everybody, surprisingly, looked to their left. “Everybody look to their right, ha.” Ditto except to the right. “We’re playing with love tonight,” and then they all resumed normal practice. 

 

“It’s not about the money, money, money. We don’t need your money, money, money. We just wanna solve all the crimes. Forget about the price tag,” Sherlock sang as he waved his hand at the man’s cheque, before he walked off. 

 

And then Lestrade snorted as he heard John say quickly, “Um, he’s kidding. Obviously. I’ll-I’ll look after that for him,” and then he took the cheque and his eyes widened as he looked down to it, before the footage ended. 

 

“Christ I hope Dimmock hasn't strangled him. Maybe I should go ask Donovan if there’s been any murders,” Lestrade muttered to himself. 

 

“Quite,” Mycroft said, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, and Lestrade’s head jerked up to look at him. For he’d quite forgotten that the elder Holmes brother was there and forgotten even more that he was holding said man’s phone. So he quickly passed said phone back and Mycroft’s fingers brushed against his as he took it and then put it away. 

 

Then, quite suddenly, Lestrade realized what had happened. Mycroft Holmes had just shown him a video of something funny on his phone. That was almost something like what a normal person would do. 

 

“Something the matter Detective Inspector?” Mycroft asked, and when Lestrade looked at him he noticed that Mycroft did look genuinely concerned. Well, as concerned as someone like Mycroft could look anyway. 

 

“Um, no,” Lestrade began, and he was just about to get back to the case of the nun and the man dressed like a frog when his own stomach rumbled. Lestrade jolted up in his seat and was about to speak to cover the moment when he could tell that it was too late. 

 

Mycroft had heard it too and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards, before he said casually, “I believe there’s a quaint kind of café just around the corner from here if it would please you more to finish your tale off there.”

 

Lestrade found himself agreeing, before he’d even properly realized what he was agreeing to. 

 

And as they left his office together and made to leave the room Lestrade saw Donovan shoot him a mystified look from above her paperwork. He shrugged his shoulders at her in response. For the truth was he had no idea what was going on either. 

 

*

 

“So then Sherlock said, ‘No, Lestrade you must really stay in the lake or it will ruin everything. John and I will go up to the house,’ and I said, ‘That’s not really what undercover means,’” Lestrade chuckled and to his surprise Mycroft joined him. 

 

Mycroft wasn’t usually one for such eccentricities but Lestrade had done a rather wonderful impersonation of Sherlock’s voice after all. Then he asked over the small table where their coffees and Lestrade’s empty plate was sat on, “And what did he say then?” 

 

“He just glared at me,” Lestrade said with a smile and then he shrugged a little as he said, “And then he pushed me in the bloody lake when he saw the family coming towards us. It worked though, they had no clue I was there until it was time to arrest them.”

 

Mycroft smiled and so did Lestrade. 

 

The officer still wasn't sure what was happening. On the way to the café he’d briefly considered making some excuse because he’d already been late as it was, he’d done zero work and let’s face it hanging out with Mycroft Holmes in a more relaxed setting just felt unimaginable. But his hunger had won out and to his surprise he was actually enjoying himself. 

 

Mycroft was a far better listener than Sherlock. He didn't interrupt as much for one thing and he gave you his full attention, which was a little unnerving at times but there was something oddly nice about it too. 

 

Then Mycroft’s phone rang and Mycroft sent him an apologetic look, before he answered it. 

 

Lestrade watched as Mycroft’s mouth changed into a thin line. Watched as his hands reached for the umbrella underneath the table as he tilted his head to keep the phone in between his ear and shoulder. Watched as he then held the umbrella firmly with one hand. Lestrade knew as he saw all those things that Mycroft would be leaving as soon as he got off the phone. Knew that he would have left already had he not wanted to be polite to Lestrade. And then Lestrade himself would have to get back to the office and do some actual work for the first time that day and it was the next realization that he had that was weird. For he realized that he actually felt a little disappointed. So much so that his heart even sank a bit. 

 

It was bizarre he thought when Mycroft had apologized and then left and he was just sitting there for one moment longer. Simply bizarre. 

 

Then as he walked the short distance back to work he hummed, ‘Price Tag,’ and barely realized that he was doing so. 

 

*

 

Mycroft always had rather mixed feelings when he departed from a meeting with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Gregory…Part of him felt guilty as if he had just done something incredibly selfish. Whilst the other part of him felt happy and didn't much care for the guilty part. 

 

He had known of his feelings for Gregory for a while and they both scared and intrigued him. It was almost as if he were part of one of his brother’s ghastly experiments. As if he knew perhaps, that for his own sake and for the sake of being sensible, that he should limit the meetings. He didn't really need to meet with the man at least twice a week and much more than that if Sherlock was on a large case. But he knew too that he, of all people, would not be the one to stop such meetings. Even if all they did was talk about his wayward, younger brother. 

 

Mycroft sighed a little now. Gregory had no idea of all the suffering he was subjecting him to… 

 

Then the sleek, black car that he’d been waiting for drew up by the curb and he got into the back seat. 

 

Anthea, his PA, was there and she cast him a quick but knowing glance as he joined her and then returned her gaze to her Blackberry. 

 

Mycroft closed the car door, drew the seatbelt across himself and then glanced out of the window as the car began to pull away. 

 

And then, because he was Mycroft Holmes and Detective Inspector Lestrade’s obliviousness was not going to stand in his way any longer, he turned his head towards Anthea and said, “I have something I wish for you to arrange this afternoon.” 

 

*

 

There was no time for the rest of that day for Lestrade to think about his unexpected but oddly nice morning. But when he tiredly dragged his feet upstairs to bed that night he saw that the broken alarm clock he’d left by the wall that morning was gone. And a new one silver one gleamed on his bedside table. 

 

A little more alert Lestrade approached it cautiously, and then when he was stood right in front of it he noticed that there was a small rectangular piece of notepaper on which there was a typed message. 

 

Detective Inspector, [it read]  
If you ever feel like going to that café again then I, if I am free, would be most glad to join you and listen to more of your tales.  
MH. 

 

Lestrade blinked and then spun around, as if Mycroft or one of his minions might be watching him at that very moment. But the room was empty and so he changed into his pyjamas and got slowly into his bed as he wondered what the hell had become of his life. 

 

Sherlock was crazy and rude. Donovan acted like a hissing cat or a small tiger whenever the consulting detective was around. Anderson was…Anderson. John was clearly doing his best to try and keep Sherlock in check. Or partly in check, anyway. Lestrade would no doubt be updated on the situation whenever they next went for a drink together. Mrs. Hudson was quite frankly a saint for not kicking Sherlock out. Molly was her usual, shy self. And Mycroft…Lestrade had always thought of him as Sherlock’s posh, icy older brother. Not someone who laughed and smiled as he sat opposite him drinking coffee. And though they had met plenty of times before Lestrade never remembered seeing the man quite at so much ease as he had seemed to be in the café. And then the man, or one of his minions, probably the latter Lestrade concluded, for he could not imagine Mycroft in a balaclava, not that the man probably needed such measures if he really was the British government like Sherlock seemed to think, had broken into where he lived and he was so used to all the crazy by now that he had barely batted an eye. He supposed it was his own price tag of having the Holmes brothers around. But oddly he didn't mind.


	3. The Great Amount of Phone Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Johnlock development in this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, the songs in this chapter are-  
> Call me Maybe [Carly Rae Jepsen]  
> Big Girl [You are Beautiful] [Mika]  
> Stayin' Alive [Bee Gees]  
> Beautiful [Christina Aguilera]  
> Also an extra warning for some very inappropriate singing courtesy of John and Greg.

The Great Amount of Phone Calls

 

“Hey I just met you. And this is crazy. But here’s my number. So call me maybe.”

 

Molly flushed. She’d only gone up to I.T to check how to do something for her blog during her break. And then she’d felt someone’s eyes on her and she’d felt her breath catch in her throat when she’d looked up and realized that it was not just someone’s eyes but a very attractive someone’s eyes. 

 

He’d got up from where he’d been in front of one of the computers and she’d swallowed and felt so apprehensive when he’d begun to approach her that she’d hurried out, before she’d even done what she’d gone there to do. 

 

And then, to top it all off, he’d started to sing as he followed her downstairs and Molly could hardly believe that it could all be for her. 

 

But apparently it was because when she re-entered the morgue he followed her. 

 

And as he stopped in front of her he suddenly looked embarrassed and she thought it was rather sweet actually. 

 

He looked down at the floor, for a moment and then Molly watched as he swallowed and found the courage to raise his eyes to hers, before she listened as he said, “I…um…I don’t usually do that,” he begun with a wave of his hands. And the look that was on his face made her think that perhaps he had even surprised himself. “I heard that song on the radio on my way in this morning, I-I work upstairs in I.T, which you probably guessed…and I…well, when I saw you I thought of it again. So call me?” and now he fumbled for a business card and slipped it nervously into her hand. 

 

Molly’s head spun a little and then because he was still looking at her she looked down at the business card momentarily and then nodded as she looked back at him. 

 

He looked relieved and she wanted to giggle actually. 

 

Then he begun to turn and move away from her, before he half-turned back to her as he looked a little flustered and said, “Um, it says on the card, but we haven’t really introduced ourselves, so I'm Jim by the way.”

 

She smiled a little, before she realized that he was waiting for her name so she blurted out, “Molly.”

 

He smiled a little shyly, said, “Nice to meet you, Molly,” and then left. 

 

And for the first time whilst she was at work Molly found herself thinking about someone other than Sherlock in a romantic sense. 

 

*

 

Sherlock had been impossible the previous night. And probably the night before that and-all right so he was impossible all of the time. 

 

But as John, fresh from staying the night at his girlfriend Sarah’s, saw about the explosion in Baker Street on the news he got up from where he’d been sitting straight away and hurried back to 221B, his mind on Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock. 

 

Only to find that Sherlock’s body parts were all still where they should be and not ready to be put in the fridge along with whosoever it was head that was there presently. Which was good of course but Mycroft was sitting opposite Sherlock, which was bad. In fact worse than bad because John had long come to think that if anyone should have been given a restraining order against each other then it was those two. 

 

And then because it felt like the two egos were taking up all the oxygen in the room John went to stand close to where the windows had once been. He took a slight calming breath as a cool gust of air hit his face and then turned reluctantly back to look at the brothers. 

 

It was at this point that Sherlock decided to ask, “How’s the diet going?” 

 

“Fine!” Mycroft replied in an exasperated fashion. 

 

And John rolled his eyes, before shortly after he pinned his hands to his ears when Sherlock deliberately played the violin terribly as Mycroft first prepared to leave and then left. 

 

Finally when the atrocious noise was over John let go of his ears and asked, “Why didn't you take it?” 

 

“Hm?” Sherlock asked as he caressed the violin’s strings with the bow a lot more lovingly. 

 

John rolled his eyes, before he elaborated, “The case he wanted you to do?” 

 

Sherlock just pouted and shrugged and John muttered, “It’s not like you’re exactly snowed under here.”

 

And then of course Lestrade, with all the good timing in the world, sent a message to Sherlock. 

 

*

 

At Scotland Yard they discovered that inside the bombed out flat had been a strong box that contained a mobile phone similar to the one that had belonged to the victim in A Study in Song. 

 

And then the puzzle began and Sherlock, John and Lestrade were led to a pair of trainers in a basement flat. 

 

Then Sherlock received a call from a terrified woman whose voice was being borrowed by the real perpetrator. 

 

Twelve hours. That’s all they had to solve the puzzle or the woman would be dead. 

 

The investigation begun at once and Sherlock and John went to St. Barts so that Sherlock could study the pair of trainers in more detail. 

 

Whilst there Molly and her new boyfriend, Jim from I.T, came to join them and perhaps things would have been quite uneventful if, after Jim had gone, Sherlock hadn't shown Molly the business card that Jim had slipped under the petri-dish and called her new boyfriend gay. 

 

It was the words; ‘Call me maybe,’ on the card that hurt Molly the most. That was supposed to be their song. And sure he’d sung the first time they’d met and yes his underwear was more visible than she would have liked it to be and yes, he did look after himself, and he’d really enjoyed the episodes of Glee that she’d shown him but…she was so stupid! How could she have really believed that he was interested in her? 

 

She wanted everyone to just get the hell out so she could cry but Sherlock was still being so infuriating and so damn cruel and did he really have to be? So she just turned and walked out.

 

As John watched the scene he decided that if anyone needed to take a course on social skills it was Sherlock. Did such a course exist? He bloody hoped so. He’d even pay the fee. Perhaps he’d send Mycroft on it too and then they could both kill each other whilst they were at it.

 

But what Sherlock lacked in social skills he made up for in deduction. He managed to trace the trainers to a schoolboy named Carl Powers, who had drowned in a pool in London. He then proved that Powers had been poisoned via his eczema medication and with the puzzle solved in time the woman was freed. 

 

After a second puzzle involving a sports car, blood, some brilliant fake crying from Sherlock and another hostage they were blessed-or was that cursed because Sherlock seemed to think that Moriarty could be responsible for all the puzzles and John was really hungry now-with a third. 

 

Connie Prince, a television personality, lay in St. Barts. Apparently, so Sherlock had been informed, she, despite being the size of a small whale, had been a kind of goddess for women everywhere. Telling them what clothes looked good on them and what did not. Not that he cared. She wouldn't be doing that any more. 

 

But Lestrade seemed to take a different view, for as soon as Sherlock was dismissive, the officer winked at John and gestured to Prince’s body as he sang, “Big girl, you are beautiful.”

 

“Were,” Sherlock corrected automatically. 

 

John though just grinned and sang, “Walks into the room. Feels like a big balloon. I said, ‘Hey girls, you are beautiful.’”

 

Jesus Christ, did they enjoy torturing him or something? Sherlock wondered. So he intoned, “Diet coke and a pizza please.”

 

“Diet coke, I'm on my knees,” Lestrade sang dramatically, before he skidded across the floor on his knees towards Prince.

 

Whereas John, obviously feeling the stress relief, gestured dramatically towards the ceiling as he sang, “Screaming, ‘big girl, you are beautiful.’”

 

“You take your skinny girl. I feel like I'm gonna die,” Lestrade sang as he got to his feet a little sheepishly. For he was definitely too old to be skidding across the floor on his knees without feeling the pain. 

 

“It’s a good job you like Mycroft then,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. 

 

“ ‘Cause a real woman needs a real man, here’s why,” Lestrade continued, a little too loudly and Sherlock smirked in spite of himself. Clearly Lestrade had heard his sentiments.

 

“You take your girl. And multiply her by four. Now a whole lot of woman needs a whole lot more,” John sang, before he strode a little wobbly towards Sherlock as if he was pretending to wear high heels and slipped his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders as he sang softly, “Get yourself to the butterfly lounge. Find yourself a big lady. Big boy, come on around. And they’ll be calling you baby.”

 

Sherlock shrugged him off and as John giggled Sherlock felt glad that he’d never seen John and Lestrade drunk together. Apparently they were bad enough sober. 

 

“No need to fantasize. Since I was in braces. A watering hole with the girls around. And curves in all the right places,” Lestrade sang, gesturing and wiggling his hips as he did so and Sherlock felt sick as he imagined that if Mycroft were watching he would be getting very turned on right now. And that was something he didn't want to think about. 

 

Then John and Lestrade both sang together, “Big girls, you are beautiful. Big girls, you are beautiful. Big girls, you are beautiful. Big girls, you are beautiful,” before they collapsed into a fit of giggles and Sherlock emitted a low growl at the pair of them, before he said, “Now if you please I have a job to do.”

 

John and Lestrade couldn't help it. They just giggled some more and when Lestrade could manage it he grinned, “Just trying to defuse the tension,” and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

 

Sherlock discovered that Prince had been murdered by her brother’s lover who had killed her by increasing her botox injections. But then, even with the puzzle solved, things took a turn for the worse as the blind hostage started to describe her kidnapper’s voice and the bomb was triggered. It killed not only her but eleven others too. 

 

And as John and Lestrade stood with Sherlock in Lestrade’s office it felt like a very long time since they had giggled and sung indeed. 

 

John couldn't help but feel angry with Sherlock when that happened, for he knew that Sherlock had solved the case far earlier than he’d told the perpetrator and therefore he’d got too caught up in playing the game rather than thinking about all the people that were being affected. So later when they were back at 221B he asked, “There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives! Just, just so I know, do you care about that at all?” 

 

“Will caring about them help save them?” Sherlock asked coolly. 

 

“Nope,” John replied angrily. 

 

“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake,” Sherlock told him matter-of –factly. 

 

But that only served to irritate John further and he asked, “And you find that easy, do you?” 

 

“Yes, very,” Sherlock replied at once, before, “Is that news to you?” 

 

John thought for a moment then, “No…No, ” and he was on the verge of going out, when Sherlock finally realised, “I’ve disappointed you.”

 

“That’s good, that’s a good deduction, yeah,” John said in a sarcastic fashion as he looked back at Sherlock with irritation written all over his face. 

 

Then Sherlock said, “Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.” And there was a pause where John just stared at him, before Sherlock protested further, “And what about you? Didn't you waste a lot of time today with Lestrade? Prancing about right by her body”-

 

“Shut up,” John interrupted him, because even though it was true Sherlock had no bloody right to make him feel bad when he was the lesser of the two evils here. 

 

And John was actually going to go out this time but another puzzle came and however reluctantly John did not leave. He was not there for Sherlock though. He was there because somebody was orchestrating all this chaos and it wasn't right. So many people had already been killed. It needed to stop and reluctantly John knew that the most likely person to make it do so was Sherlock. 

 

Then once that puzzle was done Sherlock even had time to help John with the case Mycroft had left them. They discovered that the MI6 clerk had been killed by his brother-in-law after he’d confronted said brother-in-law about a very important USB stick. 

 

That night John decided to go out. It had been a stressful kind of day to say the least and he was very much in need of some stress-relief, which he hoped Sarah could provide. He didn't realise that he would never get to her house. 

 

In contrast Sherlock very much still wanted to be focused on the case and as soon as John went out he stopped watching rubbish TV and arranged to meet Moriarty by the pool at midnight. 

 

It wasn't Moriarty who came though. It was John. 

 

At first Sherlock couldn't understand it. Then he saw the explosive coat and heard John’s stilted words as someone else controlled everything he said. 

 

Someone else who strolled in wearing a Westwood suit. And Sherlock realised with a jolt that he’d seen the man before. They all had. Moriarty was Jim from I.T. Molly’s boyfriend. Sherlock had, had his number the whole time…

 

But he couldn't be angry with himself now; there was no time, for a red laser was being pointed at John. So he looked at Moriarty calculatingly. 

 

“Don’t be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty,” Moriarty began, before he continued dangerously, “I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see…like you.”

 

And Sherlock thought he understood, but just to make sure he said, “Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?” 

 

Moriarty smirked. Then, “Just so,” he agreed. 

 

“Consulting criminal. Brilliant,” Sherlock said. 

 

“Isn't it? No one ever gets to me…and no one ever will.”

 

But, “I did,” Sherlock argued. 

 

“You've come the closest,” Moriarty agreed, before he added; “Now you’re in my way.”

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied. 

 

“Didn't mean it as a compliment,” Moriarty told him. 

 

“Yes you did,” Sherlock insisted. 

 

Moriarty shrugged now, before, “Yeah okay, I did. But the flirting’s over now, Sherlock, Daddy’s had enough now! I've shown you what I can do, I cut lose all those people. All those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear: back off. Although I have loved this, this little game of ours, playing Jim from I.T, playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?”

 

“People have died,” Sherlock told him darkly. 

 

“That’s what people DO!” 

 

There was a pause, then, “I will stop you,” Sherlock told him. 

 

“No you won’t,” Moriarty said equally as firm. 

 

Sherlock swallowed and then asked John quietly, “You alright?” 

 

Moriarty smiled a little, as John didn't reply, then he told him, “You can talk, Johnny Boy. Go ahead.”

 

So John nodded and then in the next moment Sherlock held out the USB stick to Jim. 

 

“Take it,” Sherlock said. 

 

Moriarty looked at it in a considering fashion, then he said, “Ah, that. The missile plans. Boring. I could have got them anywhere.” And then in one swift movement he took the USB stick and threw it into the swimming pool. 

 

John, just as quick, grabbed hold of Moriarty. Then, “Sherlock, run!” John said breathlessly. 

 

Sherlock did not move and Moriarty just laughed, “Good! Very good!” 

 

But John just told him, “Your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr Moriarty, then we both go up.”

 

Moriarty just seemed even more amused now and he said to Sherlock, “Mm, he's sweet. I can see why you like having him around. But then, people get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. Oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr Watson.”

 

And now the sniper changed his aim to Sherlock instead and John had no choice but to let Moriarty go. 

 

“Westwood,” Moriarty said, indicating to his suit, before, “Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, do you?” 

 

“Oh, let me guess,” Sherlock stated dryly, “I get killed?” 

 

“Kill you?” Moriarty questioned, before, “Um, no. Don't be obvious I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No no no no no, if you don't stop prying... I'll burn you. I will burn..the heart out of you.”

 

Sherlock, speaking as if he was completely unruffled, just said sardonically, “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.” 

 

“But we both know that’s not quite true,” Moriarty said matter-of-factly, before he told them, “Well, I better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat.”

 

But Sherlock, before Moriarty could go, asked, “What if I was to shoot you now. Right now?” 

 

“Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. Because I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would, and just a little bit... disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Catch…You…Later,” Sherlock said as Moriarty left them. 

 

But Moriarty had to have the last word and he sung in a high-pitched voice, “No, you won’t!”

 

At once Sherlock went to rip the explosive vest off John, and John, who protested a little at the violent way in which it was done, staggered off to the side, before he crouched down, with his back against the wall and breathed hard. Then, “Oh Christ. Ffff-are you okay?” John asked. 

 

And Sherlock, who thought that under the circumstances it should really have been him asking that question said, “Me? Yeah. Fine. I’m fine. Fine…” and then even though it was awkward as hell for him to say it he fumbled out, “That, uh, thing that you, uh, you did that, um you offered to do, that was, um…good.”

 

If John had, had the energy to he might have laughed. But instead he said, “Well, I'm glad no one saw that.”

 

“Mm?” Sherlock questioned. 

 

“You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”

 

“People do little else,” Sherlock said, before he smiled. 

 

But then, just as they thought it was all over, Moriarty’s voice sounded and he joined them once more. “Sorry, boys! I'm soooo changeable. It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

 

“Then probably my answer has crossed yours,” Sherlock answered as he first pointed the gun at Moriarty and then let it drift down to point at John’s explosive coat on the floor. 

 

John waited for the sound, waited for him, Sherlock and Moriarty to all die. As he did so part of him instinctively wanted to close his eyes and brace himself for the impact but he forced himself to keep them open. 

 

The impact never came. 

 

Instead all they heard was, “Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive,” and John’s eyes widened as it became apparent that it was the ring tone of Moriarty’s phone. 

 

Then, “Mind if I get that?” Moriarty asked, as if they had all not been about to die. 

 

“Oh no, please. You've got the rest of your life,” Sherlock humoured him as John let out a small breath. 

 

“Hello?” Moriarty said as he answered his phone, then, “Yes, of course it is, what do you want?” he snapped, before he mouthed to Sherlock, “Sorry!”

 

“Oh, it’s fine,” Sherlock mouthed back sarcastically, and John felt torn between laughing and yelling. But he supposed that’s what happened when so much crazy surrounded you. 

 

“Say that again!” Moriarty yelled to whoever was at the end of the phone, and then in a more normal voice he continued, “Say that again and know if you are lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you!” 

 

Then, within moments, it was all over and Moriarty was really gone and John breathed in and out, in and out, whilst his head spun with it all. 

 

*

 

That night when John finally went to bed, his mind still taken aback with it all, especially that damn explosive vest, he had the strangest dream. 

 

He was at 221B and then suddenly Sherlock and Mycroft were there too and Sherlock asked, “How’s the diet going?” 

 

And Mycroft did not say the things that he usually would have in real life. Instead he stood up, turned away towards the windows for a moment and then turned back to them, before he sang, “Every day is so wonderful. Then suddenly it’s hard to breathe. Now and then I get insecure. From all the pain, I'm so ashamed.” 

 

And then Lestrade emerged from Sherlock’s bedroom and John was just wondering why the hell he’d been in there when he noticed that all the windows were open and the sound of all the ordinary people on the street as they looked up and stopped to join Mycroft as he sang sounded, “I am beautiful no matter what they say. Words can’t bring me down. I am beautiful in every single way. Yes, words can’t bring me down…Oh no. So don’t you bring me down today.” 

 

And then Lestrade was in front of Mycroft and Mycroft was crying without any noise and Lestrade was reaching up to touch his cheek and then they were gone. And it was just Sherlock and John and John sang without even meaning to, “To all your friends you’re delirious. So consumed in all your doom. Trying hard to fill the emptiness. The pieces gone, left the puzzle undone. Is that the way it is?” 

 

As he finished Sherlock came right in front of him, his eyes on John’s eyes, as he sang, “You are beautiful no matter what they say. Words can’t bring you down…oh no. You are beautiful in every single way. Yes, words can’t bring you down, oh no. So don’t you bring me down today…”

 

And then they could have been in 221B or even at the swimming pool for all John knew and cared because his lips were on Sherlock’s and he was kissing him hard and his hands were pushing Sherlock back into the wall and then-John woke up with a gasp. 

 

He sat up panting and he was just thinking about getting some water, whilst simultaneously wondering what the hell had caused him to dream all that, when his door was gently pushed open. 

 

Sherlock stood there wearing a dark blue dressing gown over a grey t-shirt and blue and white striped pyjama bottoms and his eyes searched out John in the semi-darkness as John wondered if perhaps he was still dreaming. 

 

Then, “Couldn't sleep?” Sherlock asked and John thought that if this was still a dream then it was a seriously fucked up one. 

 

But Sherlock was still standing there, watching him so John swallowed, before he said, “No,” and his voice sounded loud in the stillness.

 

Sherlock tentatively came into the room a bit more and then he sat at the end of John’s bed, before he said with a slight smile, “You should call Lestrade. He could sing you to sleep.”

 

“I don’t want Lestrade,” John found himself saying automatically, still slightly high off the dream, if he was really out of it at all, as he raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. 

 

And then Sherlock’s hands were cupping his face and his lips were on John’s, before his teeth slightly grazed against John’s bottom lip and oh…Christ…surely this was real, John thought, as his hands knotted together at the back of Sherlock’s head and brought the consulting detective closer. 

 

When they pulled away from each other with a bit of a jerk and a gasp John was somehow on his side in the bed and Sherlock’s face was so close to his that his breath felt a little taken away by it all. 

 

No matter what we do  
(no matter what we do)  
No matter what we say  
(no matter what we say)  
We're the song inside the tune  
Full of beautiful mistakes.

 

Sherlock smiled a little and then, seemingly a little sleepy, he closed his eyes and John watched him for a moment, before he muttered, “People will definitely talk now.”

 

But, “Let them,” Sherlock replied, his eyes still closed, and his mind apparently perfectly at ease with the situation. 

 

And John with a small smile snuggled closer so that Sherlock’s head was resting above his. 

 

Sherlock’s smile grew and he lifted a hand to rest it lazily against John’s hip. 

 

John closed his own eyes, finally feeling safe after what had happened at the swimming pool, and then sleep came easily to him in the next few moments. 

 

And everywhere we go  
(and everywhere we go)  
The sun will always shine  
(the sun will always, always shine)  
And tomorrow we might wake on the other side.

 

When he woke up that next morning Sherlock was gone and John wondered if he was only really waking up now. If they had never actually kissed or anything. 

 

But at breakfast, which they actually managed to eat around the kitchen table for once, because Sherlock had cleared some of his experiments away, John knew they had. That it had been real. He knew by the way that Sherlock glanced at him briefly, before he looked down at his cereal. And by the way that, as John slipped into the seat opposite his, Sherlock’s bare feet moved to rest on top of John’s socks. 

 

We are beautiful no matter what they say  
Yes, words won't bring us down, no, no  
We are beautiful in every single way  
Yes, words can't bring us down, oh, no  
So don't you bring me down today.

 

As John ate his toast breakfast had never been better. 

 

Oh, yeah, don't you bring me down today, yeah, ooh  
Don't you bring me down ooh... today.

 

Then he remembered Sarah. Shit! And his feet jerked back a little from Sherlock’s automatically. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes darted up at him at once. Then, “Something wrong John?” he asked as he wished his heart would cease its suddenly frantic pace. 

 

John swallowed, then he said awkwardly, “I…um…Sarah.”

 

Sherlock froze a little, then his eyes moved down to his cereal as he asked, “What about her?” in the most even voice he could. 

 

John sighed. He could tell where this was going. A fight. And he didn't want to have one. But at the same time, “I-I really like her Sherlock, I don’t want to just…last night”-

 

“Was a mistake,” Sherlock interrupted him coolly as he got to his feet. 

 

“A mistake?” John questioned him with one eyebrow raised as Sherlock insisted on towering above him. 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed as he glanced about the kitchen, “It was a difficult night, and what is it that people say? Oh, yes,” and now he turned his gaze back to John’s,   
“ ‘One thing led to another.’ You have Sarah and I have my work,” and with that he smoothed down his dressing gown and retreated into his bedroom. 

 

John pushed his plate of toast away. He didn't feel like eating any more. He glanced in the direction that Sherlock had gone in. Perhaps he should try and talk to him? But by the time he’d stood he’d changed his mind. Sherlock had sounded perfectly certain after all. So he swallowed, put his shoes on and left to go and see Sarah. 

 

John’s day just got worse. He’d still been tense after what had happened with Sherlock and he’d ended up snapping at Sarah without meaning to. Then she’d broken up with him and he hadn't even tried to make it up to her, he’d just left. 

 

Then when he got back to 221B Sherlock was still in his bedroom, apparently destroying most of it, if the noise was anything to go by. So John, knowing that he couldn't stand that the whole night, texted Lestrade and arranged to go out drinking with him as soon as Lestrade was free. 

 

There John would get drunk and maybe try to get a new girlfriend at the same time. 

 

If Sherlock was going to be childish about all this then he was not going to be the only one. 

 

*

 

Bang!

 

Sherlock scowled at the small hole in his bedroom wall. It wasn't big enough. Fucking John Watson. Who the hell was he to waltz into Sherlock’s life and make him happy that, for once, there was another human being by his side? A human being who actually seemed to like him. Who made him feel good about himself. Who he wanted to impress. Who the hell was he to go around offering to save Sherlock’s life, before he kissed him in the middle of the night, only to change his mind in the morning? Because of what’s her name of all things? What did she have that he didn't? And he raised his arm again because he was too angry to admit that he was scared. 

 

Bang! Bang! 

 

Two more holes joined it. But it still wasn't enough. So he swung the arm that held the gun around and then-

 

Bang! 

 

There was a new hole. This time in the chest of drawers. And as Sherlock stared at it and contemplated a new idea formed in his mind. John was very obviously going out drinking, probably with Lestrade. But if he were to draw some attention then Lestrade would probably hurtle there instead and not go to meet John. And it would serve John right. Who was he to want an unspoilt evening after what he’d done? 

 

So he strode out of his bedroom, walked across to the windows, lifted one open and-

 

Bang! Bang! 

 

Two shots that broke one of the upstairs windows of the house across the road. There, that should do it. 

 

Needless to say that idea didn't exactly go as planned. For when Lestrade arrived at 221B to see Sherlock sat cross-legged on his seat and glaring at John’s seat and then had to deal with a more sarcastic than ever consulting-detective, he soon needed a drink himself. 

 

And when he arrived at the pub to find John well on the way to becoming drunk he quickly decided to follow suit. 

 

They spent the rest of the night in-between heavy drinking complaining about Sherlock. 

 

John complained about how Sherlock made things so damn complicated and how he was probably destroying 221B as they spoke so he would probably be homeless by morning. And Lestrade complained about how difficult Sherlock could be and how he’d insinuated that he, Lestrade, fancied Mycroft. 

 

“I don’t fancy Mycroft,” Lestrade told John, “I just put up with him.”

 

“Who would fancy a Holmes?” John asked, leaning rather heavily against the bar.

 

Who indeed?

 

“Bloody Holmes’s,” Lestrade said, before he took another swig of beer. 

 

“Bloody Holmes’s,” John agreed as he raised his glass, and then he giggled a little and sloshed some of the beer over the glass as he put it back down because he thought that what with all of Sherlock’s freaky experiments putting the word bloody in front of his surname seemed entirely appropriate.


	4. Toxic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Jawn is not happy when Irene Adler comes on to the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks for your support!   
> The songs featured in this chapter are-Toxic [Britney Spears]  
>  Look at me I'm Sandra Dee [cast of Grease.]

Toxic

 

Sherlock didn't know quite how it had happened. Well, okay, he knew. He just hadn't foreseen it. 

 

He and John had been summoned to Buckingham Palace. There they’d met with the Queen [a.k.a Mycroft] and a palace official who had revealed that Irene Adler, a dominatrix known professionally as ‘The Woman,’ had taken compromising photographs of herself and a female member of the royal family. Of course he and John had been tasked with the retrieval of said photographs. 

 

But still as he sat in the living room of the large house where Adler lived he felt a bit bewildered when she, wearing absolutely nothing, glided into the room as casually as anything and started to sing as soon as her eyes locked with his. 

 

“Baby, can’t you see? I’m callin’,” and now she approached him, doing a kind of sultry walk as she did so, before she sat down promptly on his lap. One of her arms curled around his shoulder and the other caressed his cheekbones as she forced him to look at her. Then, “A guy like you should wear a warnin’. It’s dangerous. I’m fallin,’” she sang and her breath tingled against his lips. 

 

“I-I,” Sherlock began, before he swallowed as she put a finger to his lips. 

 

“There’s no escape, I can’t wait. I need a hit,” and now she ran the hand that had been suppressing his speech up across the middle of his face and into his hair, before she tugged a few of those dark curls and jerked his head backwards. Sherlock gave a gasp. And with a smile of satisfaction and pleasure Adler continued to sing, “Baby, give me it. You’re dangerous. I'm lovin’ it.”

 

She then let go of him and got effortlessly to her feet. Sherlock took that moment to blink rapidly and try to recover. No, he definitely hadn't foreseen this. 

 

“Too high, can’t come down. Losing my head. Spinning ‘round and ‘round,” she sang as she span behind the settee where Sherlock was sitting and then suddenly as she sang, “Do you feel me now?” she slipped her hands down both of Sherlock’s shoulders and inched them towards his chest. 

 

John chose that moment to walk in and he looked more than a little startled, like a hedgehog in the light of a car. 

 

Sherlock blinked up at him a little hazily and Adler smirked, before she whipped Sherlock’s fake dog collar off, bit into it with her teeth and then strolled to sit into the chair that was by the side of the settee. 

 

“Um,” John began, not sure what the hell to say, let alone do. So he just stood there. 

 

“D’you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr Holmes? However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait,” Adler told him. 

 

“You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face?” Sherlock asked her as if he were genuinely curious about the matter. 

 

“I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself. And somebody loves you…” Adler began and now John shifted uncomfortably and she gave him an amused look, before she turned her attention back to Sherlock, “Oh, if I had to punch that face I’d avoid your nose and teeth too.”

 

John forced a laugh out of himself, even though it did sound rather hollow when it eventually came, and then he said, “Could you put something on please, anything at all…a napkin?” 

 

“Why are you feeling exposed?” she asked him curiously. 

 

“I don’t think John knows where to look,” Sherlock said and much to John’s irritation he sounded amused. Then the detective stood, shrugged off his coat and offered it to her. 

 

“No, I think he knows exactly where,” Adler said, before she got up casually, took the coat from Sherlock and put it on. “I'm not sure about you,” she added as she sat back down and John smirked. 

 

“If I wanted to look at naked women I’d borrow John’s laptop,” Sherlock replied and John felt both irked and impressed by the fact that Sherlock always seemed to have an answer for everything. 

 

But still he had one too so he said, “You do borrow my laptop.”

 

“I confiscate it,” Sherlock replied and John rolled his eyes. 

 

Adler then turned the conversation in a new direction and began to talk about the case that Sherlock had sent John to inspect, before they’d been taken to the palace. And then through that conversation Sherlock learnt that the photos they were after were in that very room so he sent John to ‘man the door’ as he called it. What he was really after though was for John to set off the fire alarm, which he did. 

 

And then Sherlock knew by Adler’s quick, protective gaze where the photos were. But before he could open them and before John could stop the fire alarm several CIA operatives came downstairs, promptly shut the fire alarm up and held them all at gunpoint, before they demanded that Sherlock open the safe. 

 

John thought for a moment that it might be the first time that Sherlock failed under pressure. But of course it wasn't. 

 

“Vatican cameos,” Sherlock said as the safe opened to reveal a handgun that went off and killed one of the CIA men. 

 

Then, once the rest of them were disarmed Sherlock managed, in the chaos, to get hold of Adler’s phone. Not that he could do much with it as it was protected by a password. And she soon got it back when she attacked him with a drugged syringe, before she escaped through a window with it. 

 

John was worried at first when he saw Sherlock, barely able to lift his head off the floor. But as soon as it became apparent that Sherlock would be all right he calmed down a little and even chuckled a bit when Lestrade, who he’d called, arrived and took a photo of the unusually vulnerable consulting detective on his phone. 

 

Sherlock awoke some hours later in his bedroom, after a weird dream that heavily involved Adler, to find his coat back where it belonged and that she’d added her number to his phone. 

 

That next morning everyone discovered that she’d added an interesting ring tone to Sherlock’s phone too when she texted him at breakfast. 

 

*

 

That damn phone annoyed John so much over the next six months. Every time it went off and made that…noise…Sherlock was so attentive to it. It drove him mad. 

 

And even when it didn't go off Sherlock seemed to spend most of his nights staring at the damn thing as if he was waiting for another message. 

 

Apparently John was jealous of a phone, which he’d thought was one thing that he’d never be. But he was. And as Sherlock’s interest in it persisted he began to wonder if the consulting detective was doing it deliberately. 

 

One night when he was sat in his chair on the pretence of watching the television and Sherlock was in his own chair, his phone in his hand, John went over the evidence in his mind. 

 

For one thing as far as he knew Sherlock had never shown an interest in the opposite sex or any sex for that matter. Until that night with John. But by the morning he’d changed his mind. And then apart from a bit of tension they’d both slipped back into their normal routine. More or less anyway. And in that time John had dated but Sherlock had not. But then Adler had sat on Sherlock’s lap, whilst she’d been completely naked and John supposed that, even Sherlock, with all his obliviousness of social interaction could not have failed to perhaps see that if he were to date anyone Adler might be appropriate. She’d certainly seemed more than a bit interested in him after all. 

 

The sound of Sherlock’s phone going off and that…noise…jolted John out of his thought and as he caught Sherlock’s pleased look as he read the new text, John could not stop himself from saying, “Okay you can stop doing that now Sherlock.”

 

But Sherlock barely reacted. He just continued to look at the text as a small smile played its way across his face.

 

Irritation made John stand up, tear Sherlock’s phone out of the man’s hands and throw it across the room. Finally he had Sherlock’s attention and as the man looked up at him coolly John asked, “Did you hear me? I said you can stop doing that now Sherlock!” 

 

Sherlock stared up at him calculatingly, before he rested his hands on either arm-rest and asked, “Doing what?” 

 

“Pretending to be so interested in this Adler just to show me that you’re capable of dating too. I get it okay?” John responded heatedly. 

 

Sherlock sent him a puzzled look, before he stood up and went across to retrieve his phone from the floor. Then when he’d straightened up he looked at John and said, “It’s just a case John.”

 

“And is she just a woman-the woman to you?” 

 

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, but there was a small smile on his face that John didn't like. 

 

So John crossed his arms and said, “I don’t believe you.”

 

Sherlock didn't even blink. He just said, “Oh?” 

 

“Yeah,” John said, before he added, “You've never been so interested in getting texts before. What the hell does she text you about anyway?” Then before he could help himself he added, “Do you ever reply?” 

 

Sherlock shrugged, then, “Stuff,” he answered, whilst he blatantly ignored John’s second question. 

 

And John, feeling more enraged than ever, just blurted out, “Yeah? Well I'm going to text Lestrade and then we’re going to meet up and talk about stuff too. In person!” But as soon as the words came out of his mouth he felt stupid. Not only were the words childish but also John knew that Sherlock would never feel threatened by him meeting up with Lestrade anyway.

 

“Good,” Sherlock replied in a clipped tone, before he sat down once more and began staring at his phone. 

 

John sighed, turned and left. 

 

*

 

“He says he’s not more interested in the case than any other but I know he is,” John complained to Lestrade as they sat in that same pub by that same bar. 

 

Greg sipped his beer contemplatively for a moment. Then he lowered his glass back to the bar and turned his head towards John as he asked, “You know after all that shit that went down because of Moriarty?” 

 

John nodded, though he felt a bit nervous about where Lestrade was going with this. 

 

“Well, we were complaining about Sherlock being…Sherlock,” Lestrade continued. 

 

“Yeah,” John said, because he did remember only too well. 

 

“And you said that no one would ever fancy a Holmes.” John swallowed. “Well, are you sure you don’t?” Lestrade asked, before he quickly raised his hands up in defence against the hard look that John was giving him. “It’s just, I mean, usually you’d be complaining about Sherlock and whatever crazy thing he’s done now but this,” and now Lestrade scratched his silver hair awkwardly, “Is, well, it seems different anyway. More intense.”

 

John sighed. He couldn’t exactly deny what Lestrade was saying. Or the fact that since…that night…he’d definitely started looking at Sherlock differently. He’d found that once you kissed someone and slept with them in the most innocent of ways it was rather difficult not to. 

 

Lestrade seemed to take his sigh for permission to continue though, as he said a little light-heartedly, “It’s not just that. I may not be like Sherlock but I think I can see a guy checking out another guy and know what it means.”

 

John winced and then muttered, “I'm such an idiot,” because of all people he had to go and fall for a guy like Sherlock. For even if, by the slimmest of chances, they did get together he was sure it would be far from domestic bliss. Not that he really wanted domestic bliss anyway, which he guessed was one of the reasons why he’d fallen for Sherlock who offered him no such thing. 

 

Lestrade patted John’s shoulder sympathetically and then smiled a little into his beer.

 

*

 

Back at 221B Sherlock carried on waiting for a text from Adler oblivious to all the drama he was causing. Or perhaps he just did not want to think about John and the meaning behind his words. 

 

*

 

Christmas came and John watched Sherlock a little despairingly as the latter played the violin in such a charming way.

 

Somehow he and Mrs. Hudson had managed to organize a small Christmas gathering at 221B. Lestrade was already there holding a beer, so was John’s new girlfriend Jeanette, and-

 

“No Molly?” Lestrade asked John as Sherlock finished playing, put the instrument down and grimaced a little when Mrs. Hudson told him that he should have worn the antlers. 

 

“Not yet. She said she’d come though,” John replied. 

 

“Perhaps she’s found a nice young man,” Mrs. Hudson said with a twinkle in her eye. 

 

Sherlock snorted and everyone looked at him. 

 

“What?” he asked them all with a shrug, “Can you really blame me for finding that funny with her past record?”

 

“Oh Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson sighed as she waved a hand at him. 

 

But Sherlock wasn't one to be deterred by hand waving and much to everyone’s despair he stood and sang, “Look at me, I'm Molly H,” whilst he gestured to himself, “Lousy with virginity, won’t go to bed ‘til I'm legally wed, I can’t; I'm Molly H.”

 

John bit down on his lip, Lestrade drank some more and Mrs. Hudson looked the other way as if she could pretend that it wasn't happening, whilst Jeanette looked disgusted that John could be friends with such a man. But Sherlock just ignored all of their uncomfortable expressions and ploughed on, “Watch it! Hey I’m Doris Day. I was not brought up that way. Won’t come across, even Rock Hudson lost his heart to Doris Day.”

 

Then the detective walked across to Lestrade and took the glass of beer from him, before he poured it into the fire as he carried on, “I don’t drink, no.” Then he promptly ignored Lestrade’s indignant expression and handed him back the empty glass, before he turned his attention to Mrs. Hudson as he sang, “Or swear, no,” before he strode casually across to John, sat on the arm of his chair and ran a slow hand through John’s hair, “I don’t rat my hair, eew.” Then as John sat there with his heart thumping and his mind blank, Sherlock mimed smoking and, “I get ill from one cigarette, cough, cough, cough,” before he rolled across so that he was crouched in front of John, grabbed John’s hands and placed them on his chest and threw them back, before he pranced off, “Keep your filthy paws off my silky draws would you pull that crap with what’s-her-name?” and here he looked pointedly at Jeanette, whilst John recovered enough to feel a little bad. Sherlock never could remember their names. 

 

Then back by Lestrade Sherlock ran a hand around the man’s shoulders, before he almost purred, “As for you Lestrade, I know what you wanna do. You got your crust, I'm no object of lust, I'm just plain Molly H.” Then the consulting detective jumped back with his hands raised in the air and cried out in mock horror, “Moriarty, Moriarty, let me be! Keep that charm away from me! Just keep your cool, now your starting to drool. Hey mongrel, I'm Molly H!” 

 

“Are you making fun of me Sherlock?” Molly asked as she stood in the doorway and everyone but Sherlock flinched at her voice and wondered how long she’d been stood there for.

 

Then Sherlock half-turned to face her, put one hand on his hip and tossed his head as if he were in a L’Oreal advert, before he cried, “Some people are so touchy!”

 

He went across to John now but John wore a hard look as he murmured, “That wasn't good Sherlock,” before he watched as Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson fussed over Molly, took her coat off her and got her a drink. 

 

“Oh, lighten up John. You've been scowling around for weeks!”

 

But John did not lighten up. In fact he got up and walked across to Molly. For he was not going to allow Sherlock to use all of them like they had no feelings, but his hands, in spite of all this, still tingled where Sherlock had grabbed them. 

 

If John had hoped that by walking away from Sherlock things would get better he was very much mistaken. Instead things got considerably worse. Sherlock managed to insult Molly again, this time enough for her to leave. Then there was a mysterious present left out for Sherlock on the mantelpiece. A present that Sherlock would not open in front of them. A present that made John feel angry again. A present that led to Adler’s mutilated body being found and identified. 

 

John could not even be a tiny bit selfishly happy about this development though because Mycroft made him stay at 221B so that he could keep an eye on Sherlock just in case he relapsed, which resulted in Jeanette accusing him of being more interested in Sherlock than her, which of course was true. But it still irritated John when she broke up with him. And then Sherlock spent the next few days moping about and playing sad songs on his violin, whilst he didn't eat and barely spoke. It made John wonder if perhaps Sherlock had really cared for the woman after all. If perhaps he’d loved her in that odd way of his…and he felt both jealous and bad for what he’d argued with him about before. 

 

So one night when Sherlock made a small pause as he played the violin John forced himself to blurt out, “I'm sorry, for-for what I said before. You obviously cared a lot for her and that, that was wrong of me.”

 

Sherlock did not look at him or speak, he just carried on playing as if there had been no interruption and it made John feel sad. What had happened to all the running and the laughter? Was this where all that had led them? To not talking and second-guessing? And for one moment he wished that the aftermath of that night with Moriarty had not happened. Wished that they had not kissed, that he had not snuggled close to Sherlock and breathed him in. Because if it had not happened then maybe things would be different…better…and there wouldn't be this gap between them or the deep loneliness that he felt in his heart. 

 

*

 

On New Year’s Eve John found himself at Battersea Power Station. He’d been taken there by Mycroft’s PA so he expected that he was there to see her boss. What he didn't expect was to see Irene Adler walking towards him, completely alive and not dead. It turned out that she’d faked her death to shake off the people who wanted her phone. And it made John’s head spin and made him feel angry because of what she’d done to Sherlock. But things only got worse when Adler finally bowed to his pressure and sent Sherlock a text revealing the truth because John heard that…noise…close by, which meant that Sherlock had followed him so he now knew that she was alive too. 

 

John had expected that to be the one big incident of the day. He really should have known better by now. Not that he would have really expected to arrive back at 221B to see a note that said, ‘Crime in progress. Please disturb,’ and then be told by Sherlock that Mrs. Hudson had been attacked. She was shaken, naturally, and John’s first instinct was to send her away somewhere safe. Sherlock’s first instinct of course was the opposite. He wanted her to stay and to be fair he seemed to have eliminated the threat so stay she did. 

 

Adler turned up at Baker Street not long after, they found her sleeping in Sherlock’s bed of all places, which did wonders for John’s feelings towards her and then John had to endure more flirting between her and Sherlock. He even revealed his middle name in an attempt to get them to notice that he was there too. But of course it didn't have much impact. 

 

To be fair, he supposed, she hadn't just turned up to flirt with Sherlock, she wanted him to crack a code that she’d stolen from a Ministry of Defence official. He managed to crack it in a swift time despite the fact that Adler was hovering perilously close to his face and John listened as it was revealed to be an allocated seat number on an airline. 

 

*

 

Once more Sherlock was not quite sure how he’d come to be in the situation he was now. There was definitely a pattern developing. He’d been taken to Heathrow airport by some government officials and guided onto a jumbo jet where his brother had been waiting for him. 

 

He’d worked out by now that something similar to what had happened in Coventry during the Second World War was occurring now and Mycroft only further confirmed such thoughts. The UK and US governments had been planning to fly a ‘dummy,’ plane full of corpses so as to not alert the terrorists, whilst avoiding casualties. The plan had been unintentionally ruined though by Sherlock, who had told the code to Adler, who in turn had passed it onto Moriarty. 

 

And then when they were off the plane and in a warm, old-fashioned room Adler rolled her final dice. She told Sherlock that he meant nothing to her, before she started to sing, “Don’t want no paper detective, won’t sign away my life to someone whose got the flavour but don’t have no follow through, don’t want no paper detective”-

 

“I don’t believe you,” Sherlock interrupted her coolly and she looked at him in an intrigued fashion. 

 

Then, “Oh?” she asked with one eyebrow raised. 

 

“You say that now but I remember the words to the first song you ever sung to me. You said that you were falling for”-

 

“I lied”-

 

“Perhaps. But then I saw your pupils dilate and I felt your pulse. It seems your sentiment has proved toxic to you after all, Miss Adler.”

 

Her game was up and finally Sherlock knew what the password to open her phone would be. He typed in SHER so that the screen read, ‘I AM SHER-LOCKED,’ and unlocked it easily. 

 

Then it was as if there was a different woman in front of himself and Mycroft. She wasn't the flirtatious woman that Sherlock had first met. She was scared, but some of her stubbornness still clung to her and so she only begged for their protection when she found that she had no other choice. 

 

They refused her as Holmes’s are prone to do and so Adler left them.

 

John heard the tale from Sherlock but he never set his eyes on her again. He heard from Mycroft a while later that she’d been caught by a terrorist cell and beheaded. For Sherlock’s sake they decided to tell him that she’d entered a witness programme in America.

 

The reality was that neither option was fully true and only Sherlock knew the real truth. That she had been caught by a terrorist cell but he had saved her and that, right at that moment, she was out there somewhere, alive and not dead. The way it should be.


	5. Roar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some time away from Baker Street actually helps our potential couples...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,  
> the song in this chapter is Roar by Katy Perry.

Roar

 

“Let me get this straight,” Lestrade began as his elbows rested on the edge of his desk, whilst his hands reached towards his hair, “You want me to go to Dartmoor just to keep an eye on Sherlock?”

 

Mycroft almost rolled his eyes. It really was rather simple. He'd believed that the Detective Inspector was a clever man. Lestrade's burning kind of gaze however made him come out of his thought, so he said, “Yes, that is the general idea. God knows he needs someone else keeping an eye on him out there. He's already had access to a research base that he shouldn't have.”

 

“All the way to Dartmoor just to keep an eye on Sherlock,” Lestrade repeated, and his hands pressed into his eyes now, before he lowered them and looked a little hazily at Mycroft once more.

 

Mycroft swallowed. He'd really hoped that he could count on Lestrade. So he asked a little curtly, “Is there a problem Detective Inspector?”

 

Lestrade caught the sigh in his throat, before it escaped out of his mouth. He knew that tone. It meant that there would be no compromise. But still, he couldn't help but say, “I don't suppose that I get anything out of this? Other than a desk full of paperwork when I get back and a headache from the non-human way that your brother uses his mind?”

 

Mycroft's lip twitched and then he said smoothly, “I will arrange for all your paperwork to be completed in your absence and...there are further videos of Sherlock that might interest you on my phone, which I will grant you access to on your return.”

 

Lestrade almost smiled. Then he said, “All right,” a little heavily and his job done Mycroft nodded and departed. 

 

*

 

John couldn't see Sherlock. All he could see was the odd shapes of the trees as they twisted up out of the darkness like legs of a giant, upside-down centipede. 

 

He, Sherlock and Henry, the son of the man who had supposedly been killed by the hound, had started to go towards the hollow to see if they could find anything. Or in Sherlock’s words, to see if anything attacked Henry. 

 

John had gotten momentarily distracted by some rustling in the bushes and then he’d noticed some flashing lights that he thought might be a message in Morse code and now he didn't know which way was forwards and which way was back.

 

He breathed in the cold air and tried to think. 

 

But it was no good. Everything looked the same and there was no Sherlock. John's chest felt suddenly tight and he felt momentarily like he was back in Afghanistan, separated from his group on a mission and now at extreme risk from the enemy. 

 

He took one breath and then another. He wasn't in Afghanistan, he told himself firmly. He was in Dartmoor and Sherlock was here somewhere, he just had to find him. 

 

So he took a step forwards, or was it back? And continued the best he could. 

 

But then he heard it, the sound of what could be a hound, and he began to run. 

 

*

 

Sherlock had managed to get Henry to the hollow but now what with the noise from the creature and the fog the man was breathing hard and gasping every other second as if he was on the verge of having a panic attack. And if there really were a hound it would have no problem finding them. 

 

So to try and get the other man to calm down a bit and focus Sherlock demanded, “Sing!”

 

“Wh-What?” Henry asked, and as he looked sideways at him the expression on his face was both one of fear and confusion. 

 

“Sing!” Sherlock repeated, before he added, “It will calm you down.”

 

In a jerky fashion Henry half-nodded, swallowed, and then took a few more breaths before, “I used to bite my tongue and hold my breath. Scared to rock the boat and make a mess. So I sat quietly, agreed politely.”

 

John could just hear the song and he let out a breath in relief. He was close and he smiled now in relief as he realised that Sherlock had probably not only suggested Henry sing to calm the man down but so that John might find him. 

 

“I guess that I forgot I had a choice. I let you push me past the breaking point. I stood for nothing, so I fell for everything,” Henry continued a little more strongly and as he did so he thought of anyone who had doubted him. The children who had laughed and made fun of him. The parents who had looked at him, not sure if he was lying, but with no other explanation of their own. And of the legend that had grown up out of his words. “You held me down, but I got up. Always brushing off the dust. You hear my voice, you hear that sound. Like thunder gonna shake the ground. You held me down but I got up. Get ready 'cause I've had enough. I see it all, I see it now.”

 

John joined them, relieved but a little breathless and he looked around into the darkness as Henry sang, “I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter, dancing through the fire. 'Cause I am a champion and you're gonna hear me roar. Louder, louder than a lion. 'Cause I am a champion and you're gonna hear me roar”- and then Henry broke off with a gasp and a scream and John spun around in confusion, not understanding, and then Sherlock was yelling and John was staring into the darkness, following their gazes and trying desperately to see what they could but he couldn't and then...then it was over. 

 

“Did you see it?” Henry gasped and he sounded excited even though his face was white and his eyes were wide with horror. For finally he might, without a doubt, be believed and that would mean so, so much. 

 

“No,” John said, still a bit lost in his own confusion, but then Sherlock said, “Yes,” and John stared at him in amazement. 

 

Then, “What?” he asked Sherlock, not sure if he could have really heard right because-

 

“I saw it. I saw the hound,” Sherlock said, breathing quickly as he did so. 

 

“What?” John asked in surprise, before he drew closer to Sherlock and began to say, “But you”- and then he changed his mind because Henry was so close and the man looked so relieved that finally someone else seemed to have seen it. So instead John said, “Why don't we get you back home, Henry?”

 

*

 

Then once Henry was back home safe Sherlock and John went back to the inn where they were staying and John felt a little dazed when he realised how shaken Sherlock actually was.

 

Sherlock had been so certain, before they'd come that such a hound didn't exist but now he was adamant that his eyes had seen it even though he knew that they couldn't have. He seemed to think that his body was betraying him and even when John tried to tell him that he must have been imagining things, that it had been dark and scary, he refused to listen. He knew what his eyes had somehow seen despite the impossibility. 

 

In the end John had to get out of there because Sherlock was acting so weird and he couldn't help but feel a little panicky about the situation himself. There couldn't be a hound, there just couldn't be, of that much John was sure. But what could Sherlock’s eyes have seen if there wasn't? But, quite frankly, he also felt angry too because Sherlock in between his crazy had said that he didn't have any friends. 

 

“What am I then?” John huffed a little angrily to no one, before he breathed in the cold air and then when he saw the same flashing light that he'd seen earlier he set off towards it. It turned out the light was nothing as sophisticated as he'd earlier thought it could be and so when John got a text from Sherlock asking him to talk to Henry's therapist Louise Mortimer, who also happened to be very pretty, he hurried back to the inn. 

 

Things there didn't go quite to plan either. He'd been trying to talk to her as a worried friend to get more information than professionally she was allowed to give but Dr Robert Frankland, who he and Sherlock had met when they'd accessed the research base, came over and blew his cover. So that was another woman he wouldn't be getting anywhere with.

 

*

 

The next day saw John sitting outside a church trying to work out that if he had seen a message being relayed by Morse code the first time what the letters-U.M.Q.R.A-might mean when Sherlock joined him. 

 

As he did John couldn't help but feel irked because of what had happened the previous night. Sherlock wasn't supposed to panic for one thing and for a bloody other he was supposed to have realised by now that John was his friend and that he would have been more had he had his way. So with all that threatening to consume him he could only take so much of Sherlock, before he began to walk away.

 

But Sherlock called after him, “Listen, what I said before John, I meant it,” and John began to walk faster because he could not deal with Sherlock repeating that after everything he wasn't his friend. But Sherlock added, “I don’t have friends; I've just got one.”

 

And John wanted to stop and turn around but it was as if his body wasn't listening so he was still walking away and trying not to hope too much as the word, “Right,” spilled out of his mouth. 

 

“John? John!” Sherlock called and now he was running after him and John was still trying to breathe and walk. But then, “You are amazing! You are fantastic!” Sherlock cried. 

 

And John could not help but almost laugh as he replied, “Yes, alright, don’t have to overdo it.” 

 

And then Sherlock went on to pay him a sort of compliment thing because apparently John was a good conductor of light or something and because of that Sherlock had come to realise that hound might be an acronym, like U.M.Q.R.A and not an actual creature. 

 

John felt a bit relieved by this because at least Sherlock wasn't panicking any more but his mind was a bit too full with the fact that Sherlock did actually see him as a friend and thank bloody God to actually pay proper attention. 

 

To be fair though he had obviously been paying more attention to certain things than Sherlock, who when they ran into Lestrade, apparently on another holiday though obviously sent there by Mycroft, did not seem to have any idea about the Detective Inspector’s first name. 

 

Together they all interrogated the innkeepers about a past order for meat that John had spotted, which all in all was rather strange considering that the restaurant was a vegetarian one. The innkeepers confessed that they had kept a dog on the moor to boost the tourist trade but had, had it put down some time ago. Lestrade seemed fine by this explanation but Sherlock said that it was most definitely not a dog of a normal breed.

 

Then once they’d gathered all they could and Sherlock had made John coffee with sugar that John didn't usually take and John and Lestrade were going to wait outside the inn, for Sherlock to decide their next move, John looked over his shoulder to make sure that Sherlock wasn't close by and said, “You know he is actually pleased you are here. Secretly pleased,” because he didn't want Lestrade to believe that Sherlock was actually that indifferent to him. 

 

“Is he? That’s nice!” Lestrade replied and he looked quite pleased that he actually was wanted after all, before he tried to work out why that was and said, “I suppose he likes having all the same faces back together. Appeals to his…his…” and now he looked at John for help, but all John could shrug and suggest was, “Asperger’s?” before Sherlock was suddenly there and they had to quickly change the conversation. 

 

Sherlock decided that he and John needed to go back to the research base and so after he’d got actual permission from Mycroft this time because they wouldn't be able to use Mycroft’s identification again after the last time, they left to go there. 

 

On his own once more and despite John’s words Lestrade could not help but get out his phone and text Mycroft: What’s my first name? GL. 

 

He was just walking around twenty minutes later when his phone rang and as he answered it he smiled as he heard Mycroft’s voice say, “Gregory,” at the other end.   
Smiled because not only did Mycroft know his name but because it sounded rather nice coming from his voice too. 

 

But then because he realised that Mycroft was waiting for some kind of a response he said half-jokingly, “I'm glad one of you remembers.”

 

There was a slight pause and then, “Ah,” Mycroft began, “I must apologise for my little brother’s lack of manners Detective Inspector.”

 

“Call me Greg,” Lestrade said automatically. 

 

“Very well then, Greg…ory,” Mycroft began, because really he could not be that laid back and he hated when people shortened each other’s names down or God forbid gave each other nicknames, “You may call me Mycroft.”

 

“Okay, Mycroft,” Lestrade tested out a little awkwardly and there was a slight pause after he’d said it, during which Lestrade wondered if Mycroft was already regretting his choice. 

 

Then, “Ah, I must apologise but I have to go,” Mycroft said swiftly, yet still somehow in a polite fashion. 

 

And as Lestrade put his phone back in his pocket he was left, after another instance with Mycroft, wondering what the hell had just happened.

 

Then he remembered that he was supposed to be going to the local police so he promptly went there. 

 

*

 

John couldn't believe it. It was true. It was true. Oh God. And he was here; stuck in one of the labs on the lower floor with no way out and oh Christ he heard it again. A low growling noise. It sounded closer this time. It was here and so close. Oh God. 

 

Instinctively he fumbled in his pocket, got out his phone with a trembling hand and tried to call Sherlock. But Sherlock did not pick up. And he heard the noise again so he ran across the room to the empty cage that he’d noticed earlier, bolted inside it and locked himself in, before he pulled the white cover back over it and hoped that, that would be enough to keep him hidden. But it probably wouldn't be, he couldn't help but think, because the dog could probably smell him and-

 

His phone rang and with a bit of a jump he answered it, before he said in the lowest voice that he could, “It’s here…Sherlock, you have to get me out of here, oh Christ…I think it’s getting closer…”

 

And Sherlock told him to stay on the line and to keep talking, to describe what he could see and hear and then-Oh God! John could see it! See its glowing red eyes and the dark shaggy coat, see its monstrous size and it had seen him and it was coming and John braced himself and then-Oh God! 

 

There was an almost blinding burst of light that cut through the near darkness that the lab had been plunged into and then Sherlock was there and John was out of the cage and on his feet and blinking and not understanding because where was the hound-

 

“You've been drugged,” Sherlock told him, cutting through his thought, “We all have.”

 

“Drugged?” John panted because he could not understand how…and it had all felt so real. 

 

“We've been eating and drinking the same ever since we arrived, except for the fact that you don’t take sugar in your coffee.”

 

“That’s why you put the sugar in,” John panted. 

 

Sherlock nodded, “It’s the only explanation,” then, “It’s okay,” he added. 

 

“No, it’s not okay!” John told him a little fiercely because it wasn't, he didn't understand any of this, the hound…he’d heard the growling hadn't he? Why would he have imagined that? How could he have imagined that? Even if he’d been drugged, it had felt so real…

 

*

 

John still didn't understand later on when Sherlock retreated into his mind palace. 

 

But then things started to become a little clearer. Through accessing confidential files on a computer they discovered that H.O.U.N.D was a C.I.A project whose aim was to create a hallucinatory anti-personnel weapon. And though abandoned a few years ago it had been continued in secret by none other than Frankland. 

 

*

 

That perhaps might have been the end of it. They might have gone to Henry’s and discussed it with him in a quiet setting. Had John not received a phone call from Louise Mortimer who said that Henry had raced off with a gun after nearly shooting her by accident. 

 

After they’d called Lestrade and told him to come with a gun John and Sherlock raced back to the hollow. As they hurtled there as quickly as they could John’s head raced with anxiety and fear about what Henry might do to himself. About what, in the time that had already elapsed, he might already have done to himself and therefore about what they might find when they reached the hollow. He hoped though, especially now that they had some answers, that it wasn't too late. 

 

Finally they reached it and John felt a brief flicker of relief tinged with a lot of fear hit him. For Henry was still alive but he was right on the verge of doing himself some fatal harm. John wanted to get the gun away from him, to calm him down, to get him away from the hollow entirely, but it was Sherlock’s words that seemed to have an impact. 

 

Sherlock’s words as he explained the real truth that Henry had been waiting to hear all this time. About how the hound was a hallucination. About how his father had been killed by Frankland who had been wearing a gas mask and a t-shirt with ‘H.O.U.N.D Liberty, In’ on it. About how as a child Henry hadn't been able to deal with what he’d seen and so he’d believed that a hound had killed his father instead because the truth was just too horrible. 

 

By the end Henry, though still breathing quite heavily, seemed almost calm with acceptance and John even managed to take the gun away from him, but then the supposedly dead innkeepers dog showed up and made him panic again. 

 

Lestrade tried to shoot the dog, but missed, but John, with the gun that he’d taken off Henry managed to, before Sherlock made Henry look at its body and made him see that it was just a normal dog. Then Sherlock realised that every time Henry had been drawn back to the hollow Frankland had gassed him with the hallucinogen, which was in the fog that swirled around the hollow.

 

Then Frankland showed up and he admitted that he’d murdered Henry’s father because he found him testing the drug, before he fled and although they chased after him, John with his heart thumping in his throat, they could not stop him from running straight into the minefield and blowing himself up. 

 

It was finally over though. They’d done what they’d gone there for and Henry had the truth at last. It was over. 

 

*

 

John was back in the lab and he could see it. See the red eyes and the dark, shaggy coat, almost feel its hot breath as it panted and this time there wasn't anywhere to run to. He’d backed up against the wall, but with the beast’s eyes fixed upon him he was too afraid to move, too afraid to dart left or right, too afraid to even breathe and then it stopped. 

 

It looked at him and John looked back at it, his breath feeling tight in his chest as he did so. 

 

And then it jumped towards him, its great black paws landing squarely on John’s chest and John let out a yell-

 

“John! John!” came a voice but it sounded too far away and all John was aware of was the beast’s hot breath against his neck and the racing of his heart. 

 

“John! Wake up!” came the voice again, this time a little louder and John shut his eyes, before he was jerked out of the nightmare. Only to find himself sitting bolt upright in bed, with Sherlock hovering over him. 

 

“Wha’?” John mumbled, his throat dry and his voice hoarse. Then he realised that he’d had a nightmare and that Sherlock had come to check on him and he suddenly felt too embarrassed and ashamed so he just lay back down and turned onto his side. 

 

“I”- Sherlock began but John cut him off. 

 

“I’m fine,” John said a little firmly, before he remembered his manners and said, “Thank you for checking, but I'm fine.”

 

Sherlock shifted a little and partly turned towards the door. But then he turned back to John and said, “The lab…I…I don’t want you to be angry with me John, but it was me. I locked you in there.”

 

And now John sat back up again and stared at Sherlock, then, “What?” he whispered. 

 

Sherlock could barely look at him for a moment, but then he forced his eyes to meet John’s and said, “I…I had to, I knew what effect it had on a superior mind so I had to try it on an average one.” John frowned and Sherlock realised that he’d said one of those not good things again so he quickly added, “You know what I mean.” 

 

John huffed. He understood what Sherlock was getting at but that didn't mean he had to like it and before he could help himself he blurted out, “I just had a nightmare about the damn thing!”

 

Sherlock flinched a little, before he mumbled, “I'm sorry.” 

 

“Yeah, I bet you are,” John retorted angrily, before he thought of something and said, “So you were wrong about the sugar then.”

 

Sherlock gave him a dark look and John just chuckled, before he wiped his damp, sweaty hair away from his forehead and asked, “So will we be going back tomorrow?” 

 

Sherlock nodded, and then the two stared at each other for a moment, before, “Are you all right?” Sherlock asked and there was just a tiny flicker of something in his eyes but John knew at once what it meant. Sherlock was afraid that John wouldn't want to do anything with him any more because of the way Sherlock had experimented on him. 

 

“You think I'm going to leave you, don’t you?” John asked, before he added, as Sherlock quickly looked away, “Prat.”

 

Sherlock looked up at him and then went to tentatively sit on the side of John’s bed when John gestured for him to. Their eyes met. Then John smiled a little, before he said earnestly, “I could never leave you, Sherlock. No matter what. Do you understand?” 

 

And Sherlock, looking like a small child and for the entire world as if he’d just been the one who’d had the nightmare, nodded. 

 

Then John lay back down and turned on his side, away from Sherlock. He expected Sherlock to get up and leave but instead Sherlock lay down and curled one arm around John’s waist. John’s breath froze. Was this perhaps another dream? Had he fallen asleep that fast? Instinctively he turned around and his hair tucked underneath Sherlock’s chin. Then tentatively, still not sure whether this was real or not, John tugged his head a little away from Sherlock’s so that he could see that the man’s eyes were closed and then moved forwards very hesitantly to kiss the man’s forehead. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open to see John’s slightly parted lips and he smiled a little lazily at him. 

 

It was real, John thought, it must be. But still he could not help but ask, “What is this?” as he gestured in between his chest and Sherlock’s. 

 

“What do you want it to be?” Sherlock asked him.

 

John took in the mop of dark hair, those eyes which swirled with a colour John had seen on nobody else, the cheekbones, the freckle Sherlock had on his neck and the feeling of warmth that came with the fact that Sherlock’s body was so close to his. Then, “Real,” John replied and Sherlock smiled. 

 

*

 

Back in London, the following morning, Mycroft was overseeing the release of Moriarty from a holding cell. He’d been questioning the man, whilst everyone was away and occupied in Dartmoor. The time had come now however to let him go. But when he heard that ‘Sherlock,’ had been written all over the walls something writhed inside him. As he went back to work it occurred to him that it was a feeling of uneasiness. And as he realised it the feeling momentarily rose within him, before it swelled until he pushed it back down and forced his mind back to what he had to do next.


	6. The Outcasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I owe you a fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks for your support.  
> The songs in this chapter are:-  
> Outcast [Glee Cast]  
> Just the Way you Are [Bruno Mars]  
> A House is not a Home [Dionne Warwick].

It was one thing to be Sherlock Holmes's friend but quite another to be his boyfriend. 

 

Sometimes John found himself thinking how bizarre it all was whenever Sherlock took his hand or slipped into his bed. Bizarre that Sherlock had chosen him, not just to be his boyfriend but also to be his friend. Sherlock Holmes only had one friend apparently, and it was him. John Hamish Watson. And it seemed a long time ago since he'd returned to London as a broken, fragile man from Afghanistan. He still had the nightmares sometimes of course. He doubted if he'd ever fully get rid of them. But instead of waking up alone he now woke up to Sherlock's eyes. To Sherlock's deep but gentle voice as he reassured John that he was safe. That nothing could harm him. 

But all too soon they would discover how wrong he was. For John wasn't safe. John could still be harmed. John could still break again. 

 

*

 

The flash of the camera hit John's eyes and he blinked, before he looked instinctively up at Sherlock and a grin spread over his face as he caught sight of him. 

 

Sherlock hated all of this. The attention. He just wanted to get on to the next puzzle. 

 

He did not want to be stood, waiting around, for photos to be taken or for his pat on the back. 

 

But that was what it seemed to have come to. 

 

For whether he liked it or not Sherlock Holmes was famous and whether he liked it or not John Watson had been publicly announced as his boyfriend. 

 

He'd already had quite enough of Mrs. Hudson cooing at the sight of them whenever they did anything as dramatic as look at each other so John did not want to have to deal with the rest of the world too. 

 

But that was what it seemed to have come to. 

 

Still, part of him, if he was a little honest with himself didn't mind. For they could write as much as they liked in the papers, but some things were still private. Like the way John would sometimes catch Sherlock staring at him when he woke up or the way, if they were in danger, Sherlock would sometimes grab his hand, just momentarily, to give it a quick squeeze of reassurance. To say that no matter what they would be okay. Even for a moment. But that moment had ended. 

*

 

_'Not guilty.'_ The words from the jury wouldn't have mattered so much if it had been just an average case. But it hadn't. It had been called the trial of the century by the press and somehow James Moriarty had gotten off what he'd been charged with after he'd left the shadows long enough for a little trouble making. Namely breaking into the case where the Crown Jewels were kept, opening the vault at the Bank of England and unlocking all the cells at Pentonville prison all at the same time. 

 

_'Not guilty.'_ The words stressed John Watson, just like the words, 'Get Sherlock,' which Moriarty had written on the side of the case of the Crown Jewels, before he'd broken into it had. Just like Moriarty letting himself be caught had. 

 

But they weren't the only things. Ever since it had happened Sherlock had stopped slipping into John's bed and stopped doing all the little things he did. Like touching John's feet with his own underneath the table or smiling with his eyes when he looked at him. It was as if he was pulling away and John hated it. All because of Moriarty. All because of that one man. 

 

So when Mycroft summoned him, before he told him that professional assassins had moved into flats at Baker Street John couldn't help but blurt out in a cracked, strained voice, “I don't know if...I was a soldier, but I'm a Doctor too and...he's pulling away from me, Mycroft, I know it...and I don't know what to do...” Mycroft didn't say anything though, he just looked at him and then he averted his eyes and it made John feel so...angry...angry enough to growl, “Forget it. I should have known better than to tell you. What do you know about love?” and with that he turned and stalked out. 

*

What did he know about love? Mycroft pondered as he sat behind his desk. He knew the love that you feel for your parents, no matter how annoying and trivial-minded they can be. He knew the love that you feel when you see your brother getting bullied at school and want to protect him. He knew the love that you feel when said brother almost gets himself entirely excluded from society because of his odd ways and though you can do little about it you still want to try. Still want to protect your little brother even though he is an adult now and this isn't the playground, this is the world. And he'd dipped perhaps his smallest toe into a different pool of love too, because he knew that what he felt for Detective Inspector-for Gregory was different from all of that. He just didn't know how to express it and take it any further. The man seemed to almost enjoy his company, but it was difficult, oh so difficult to tell, to be certain that it was anything more than just being polite. But even so, if there was something, how could he take that further? How could they go from talking about Sherlock and laughing to just...being with each other? He'd expected, as the eldest perhaps, to have worked it out by now and definitely before Sherlock. But as he remembered John's desperate words and that...anger that came out of love, it seemed, Mycroft thought, that perhaps his little brother with all his quirks, had beaten him to it. 

*

Things might have got better, what with being on a different case and all. But even that-the case of the US ambassador’s children being kidnapped-was linked. 

 

All it took was for the children to be found and for the girl to scream when, at Scotland Yard, she saw Sherlock, for the next part of Moriarty's plan to unfold. Because Donovan began to suspect that Sherlock was responsible. That Sherlock had set up the case, and God knows how many more, to look clever when he solved it. And then she and Anderson went to Lestrade...and Lestrade? Lestrade called John to say that he was coming and John was angry and scared and damn right furious all at once. But in the short time that they had there was nothing either he or Sherlock could do. 

 

Lestrade, whilst several other officers waited outside, came up and said that he had no choice. 

 

“Greg, this is Sherlock!” John protested because he could still not believe that this was happening. And he could still not believe that Lestrade, of all people, did not believe in Sherlock. That no one it seemed but he did.

Then, “It's okay, John,” Sherlock said coolly and John turned to look at him so fast that his neck hurt. Because this was not okay. 

And then John looked back at Lestrade, at the sad but firm look on the man's face, and in a desperate attempt to make him change his mind, to make him remember how much Sherlock had done for him, he sang, “Who's to say, who's not okay? The breakaways, will outlast, will outlast,” but the words merely hovered in the air between them for a moment, before they died. 

Lestrade arrested Sherlock and John punched the Chief Superintendent-yes, apparently they were important-to get arrested too and then they were running, John handcuffed to Sherlock as his supposed hostage and John had never felt more alive. 

_Sticks and stones, won't break these bones._  
They're just some drones  
To get past, I'll get past. 

John collided with the wire fence. Sherlock was already clambering up it and John gasped a little as the force tugged at his hand, dragging it up and the tightness of the handcuffs seemed to increase by tenfold. Until there came a point where Sherlock could not move any further and as the floppy-haired detective looked down upon him, his hands still gripping onto the fence, John panted, “Um, if we're going to do this then we're going to have to work together here.”

_Feeling downcast, like an outcast.  
Underdogs, it's time to bite back._

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. Then he clambered back down a little and moved to the right a bit, which gave John the space to start to climb himself. When John was almost level with Sherlock their eyes met for a moment and they began to climb some more.

_We are, we are, we are_  
Stronger from every scar  
Brighter than any star  
We're the outcast, outcast  
There's nothing you can say  
To blow our dreams away  
We rise above the fray  
We're the outcast, outcast. 

It felt like a weird, climbing-wall version of a three-legged race but even so they got to the top without too much effort. Then when they'd both swung around to grip onto the other side Sherlock looked at John once more. 

“Jump?” John asked once he'd read his boyfriend's expression.

Sherlock nodded, before he murmured, “On the count of three then. One, two, three.”

_In this skin, I'm better than  
I've ever been, so take that, yeah, take that._

And they jumped; Sherlock's sharp elbow collided a little roughly with John's arm, before they landed with a thud. 

For a moment they just stood there panting and looking at each other. 

_The test of time will show who shines_  
It will be mine  
Yeah, the last laugh, the last laugh. 

_Feeling downcast, like an outcast  
Underdogs, it's time to bite back._

Then they began to run again and as the impact of the other's body made both of them more awkward and less able to run Sherlock cried, “Take my hand,” and John did so without hesitation. Sherlock's hand felt smooth and warm beneath his. That's all that John had time to register as they left one alleyway for the next. But had he known it would have been the last time he would have held Sherlock's hand he might have paid it rather more attention. 

_We are, we are, we are_  
Stronger from every scar  
Brighter than any star  
We're the outcast, outcast  
There's nothing you can say  
To blow our dreams away  
We rise above the fray  
We're the outcast, outcast. 

_I'd rather be outrageous than_  
Just another door pushing again  
I'd rather be a rainbow than  
Just some shade of grey. 

_We are, we are, we are_  
Stronger from every scar  
Brighter than any star  
The outcast, the outcast. 

_Haaaa...haaa...haaa_  
Haaaa...haaa...haaa  
Stronger from ever scar  
The outcast, outcast  
Haaaa...haaa...haaa  
Haaaa...haaa...haaa  
Brighter than any star  
The outcast, outcast  
Haaaa...haaa...haaa  
Haaaa...haaa...haaa  
We are, we are, we are  
The outcast,outcast. 

 

*

John was used to a bit of breaking and entering with Sherlock but when they waited at a journalist's house for her to return he had not expected Moriarty to also come. Or was it Richard Brook? A scared actor who had been paid by Sherlock to pose as a master criminal? And John was angry again. In fact when they got out of there John wanted nothing more than to just disappear somewhere safe with Sherlock. Even though he didn't know where safe was. 

But Sherlock said he had something that he needed to do. Something that he didn't want to do with John and John wanted to protest, but before he could Sherlock had left him there, tired and alone in the damp, dark street. 

He wasn't just tired and alone though. He was angry. And his anger drove him to the Diogenes Club, whilst Sherlock was doing whatever he was doing. 

*  
Sherlock waited and then just as Molly switched the light in the morgue off and just before she could leave he sang, “Oh, her eyes, her eyes make the stars look like they're not shining. Her hair, her hair falls perfectly without her trying. She's so beautiful. And I tell her every day. Yeah, I know, I know when I compliment her, she won't believe me. And it's so, it's so sad to think that she doesn't see what I see. But every time she asks me do I look okay? I say when I see your face. There's not a thing that I would change. 'Cause you're amazing. Just the way you are.” Then when she just spun around and looked at him with saucer-shaped astonished eyes he added, “You're wrong, you know? You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I wasn't okay before...I'm going to die Molly Hooper.”

Molly sucked in a breath and then she asked as her eyes locked with his, “What do you need?”

“You,” Sherlock replied and Molly's eyes widened. 

*

John was furious. It was because of Mycroft that Moriarty had been able to do all of this! Mycroft, the stupid pillock, had given Moriarty any personal information about Sherlock that he wanted in exchange for information. And in that moment Mycroft really was the Iceman.

*

John was still fuming and cursing about the whole thing when he found Sherlock in one of the labs at St. Barts. 

But then he got a phone call and as Sherlock watched John's fingers on his free hand begin to wiggle about, his face pale and his eyes bulge a little he instantly knew what it was about. 

Sure enough when John lowered the phone he gasped out, “Christ...Mrs. Hudson...Christ...she's been shot Sherlock.”

But Sherlock looked away from him and carried on playing with the small, black ball that he'd found God knows where and unbeknownst to John, Sherlock was hoping that his boyfriend would observe and not just look for once. 

“Did you hear me? I said”-

“I know what you said,” Sherlock interrupted him coolly. 

“Well, come on then,” John urged him, beginning to get a little frantic now, whilst in his mind angry words hissed that they should have got Mrs. Hudson to somewhere safe when all of this first started. 

But, “You go,” Sherlock replied lazily. 

And John stared at him because he thought that he must have heard wrong. Because Sherlock of all people cared for Mrs. Hudson. He'd thrown a man out of a window for attacking her for Christ sake so surely he was going to come. Surely he wasn't going to just sit there?

But Sherlock just repeated, “Go.”

So, “Aren't you coming?” John said a little stupidly. 

“I just want to be alone,” Sherlock replied a little coldly and John just stared at him. 

“But Mrs. Hudson,” John attempted, not sure in that moment whether he wanted to be angry or cry.

“Alone protects me,” Sherlock said as if John had not spoken. 

And then John was definitely angry. But for the first time in what felt like a long while it was with Sherlock. So, “No. It doesn't. Friends protect each other,” John said. 

“I don't have friends,” Sherlock snarled a little and John stepped back a little, before he blinked. Because he could not believe that Sherlock had said that. They'd been in this situation before, but what with everything, what with John being the only person to stand by Sherlock in all of this bloody mess it hurt a lot more. 

He wanted to argue. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch Sherlock. But in the end, as Sherlock kept his gaze averted, all John did was leave. 

As the door shut behind John, Sherlock looked across to where his boyfriend had been. Then he felt a brief flicker of emotion that made him want to call John back. But he pushed it, down, down, inside his mind palace until it was practically underneath the floorboards and by the earth. Then he got his mobile out and texted Moriarty, asking him to meet him on the roof. As he put his phone away and stood he whispered, “I hope you’ll know I'm doing this to protect you,” and then he left the room. 

*  
Lestrade was in his office when Donovan walked in and he tried to break out of his depressed state as he looked up at her. 

 

“Sir, apparently there’s someone on the roof of St. Barts,” Donovan began a little hesitantly. 

 

But he just gave her a look that asked, ‘What has that got to do with me?’ and then when he spoke all he said was, “Uniform deal with jumpers.”

 

Donovan blinked and her hand clutched at the door frame a little tighter momentarily, before she forced out, “Yes Sir. But the description we've had of…of the man…it, well, it sounds like it could be Sherlock Holmes Sir.”

 

It was one of the few times that she had called Sherlock by his name and that was all that Lestrade registered for a moment, before he fully started to realize the implications of what she’d said and got to his feet automatically as he muttered, “Shit.”

 

He was out of the room in seconds, racing across the floor and out of the double doors, nearly colliding into another officer who stared at him in astonishment, before he clattered down the stairs, his hand flying out to grab onto the banister as he nearly slipped, before he went down, down and out. 

 

Donovan still stood in the doorway of Lestrade’s office. She breathed in and out slowly for a moment, her eyes still fixed on where her superior officer had been sat just moments earlier. Then she took one last deep breath and turned around, only to come face to face with Anderson. She gave a little gasp. 

 

But he barely let her catch her breath and didn't apologize for scaring her. Instead he just said a little tensely, “It’s not true is it? What I heard an officer saying downstairs?”

 

A muscle in her face twitched but she kept her eyes on him as she nodded. 

 

His body sagged and he steadied himself against the wall with one hand, before he ran the other through his hair. Then, “Christ…shit…Christ…” he got out in between frantic breaths, before he looked at her and asked, “It’s not…surely it’s not because of what…he hates us…he wouldn't…”

 

She swallowed now because she couldn't think about that right now. She just couldn't. She had to stay focused. Had to not let her mind run away from her. So she grabbed one of his shoulders firmly and his eyes, which had been spinning around the room dazedly looked back at her. Then, when she was certain that she had his attention she told him a little more heavily than she had wanted, “Let’s just see what happens, yeah?” and he nodded slowly for a moment, his eyes still on hers, before he turned and staggered off. 

 

She sighed. He was already falling apart and she momentarily felt a bit disgusted that she had ever had sex with anyone so…weak. Then she went to get a coffee from the machine. She had a feeling that she was going to need it. 

 

*

 

By the time Lestrade got there it was too late. There was just a pool of blood on the pavement. When he looked at it as he approached his head span and he thought he might be sick so he raised his eyes only to feel even worse because John was stood over the blood and staring into it as if it held all the answers in the world. 

 

Lestrade stopped walking and hesitated. Perhaps he should turn around. It was too late now anyway, there was nothing he could do. But then John looked up and saw him and Lestrade’s breath caught in his chest. 

 

And then John was right in front of him and-

 

Lestrade staggered backwards at the face of John’s punch, before he landed ungracefully on the pavement. 

 

“Do you know why he did this?” John asked as he stared down at him with shiny, angry eyes. 

 

And he sounded so angry, so hurt, so utterly broken that Lestrade could barely look at him. But he forced himself to as he croaked, “John please…”

 

“No! He liked you! He actually liked you and hell you know he doesn't like many people and you still couldn't believe in him! Nobody believed in him but me and it still…he still did this!” Lestrade swallowed but he didn't say anything so John continued, “He…he once implied that Mycroft had a thing for you and…and I hope you’ll both be very happy together. You deserve each other. You’re both cold-hearted bastards. You both let him down when he needed you. He needed you Greg and you…”

 

“I know,” Lestrade whispered, unable to look no higher than his own knees, but when he finally managed to look up John was already walking away down the street. And as he watched Lestrade sighed because John’s limp had already returned. 

 

*

When John had finally stopped walking around to delay the process of going home without Sherlock he took a ragged breath, before with a cold hand he pushed the door open. 

 

Mrs. Hudson came out to see him at once. She could it turned out because she hadn't been shot after all. She hadn't been dying. It had been someone’s idea of a way to get John away from Sherlock. But even so as she stood there now her face was pale and concerned and her eyes were damp with tears as the words, “Oh John,” escaped her lips. 

 

He did not ask how she knew. In fact he barely looked at her. He just went upstairs. But that did no good either. For everything was exactly as they’d left it and it hurt. It hurt that Sherlock would never be told again by Mrs. Hudson to clear up his mess. It hurt that Sherlock would never again leave a body part in the fridge or take up the entire kitchen table with one of his experiments. Or play his violin. Christ, it hurt so much. 

 

John kicked off his shoes and socks and then sank into his normal chair and when he closed his eyes he could almost imagine that Sherlock was sat opposite him, his eyes nearly shut and his fingers steepled together underneath his chin. But when John opened his eyes there was no one there.

 

And he found himself singing; “A room is still a room, even when there’s nothing there but gloom. But a room is not a house, and a house is not a home when the two of us are far apart. And one of us has a broken heart.”

 

_‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’_ the words seemed to float across to the forefront of his mind from its depths and John almost smiled, before his throat felt raw once more and his eyes flickered with fresh tears because they were at the end now and not the beginning.

 

“Now and then I call your name and suddenly your face appears. But it’s just a crazy game and when it ends, it ends in tears,” John sang a little hoarsely, before he roughly wiped his tears away with his sleeve and stood abruptly. Then he went across to the window and looked out. There was already a reporter or two, no doubt re-tracing Sherlock’s life already when he was barely even…and John closed his eyes now and wished that Sherlock was there with him. That Sherlock could be looking out of the window too and scowling down at the reporters. 

 

_‘What do they want now?’ Sherlock would have asked._

 

_And John would have looked at him with a small, curt smile and said, ‘You probably, their famous consulting detective.’_

 

“So darling, have a heart, don’t let one mistake keep us apart. Well, I'm not meant to live alone, turn this house into a home. When I climb the stair and turn the key. Oh, please be there, still in love with me,” John sang more strongly, before he turned away from the window and faced the room.

 

*  
“You... you told me once... that you weren't a hero,” John began through hazy eyes as he stared at the dark headstone that proclaimed in large, golden letters: SHERLOCK HOLMES. “Umm... There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so... there. I was so alone... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be...dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop _this_...” and then out of words, he gave his boyfriend one last salute and walked away.   
And Sherlock, very much alive and clad in his usual coat and scarf, watched as John walked away and for a moment he wanted to run over to him and take him in his arms because John looked…broken. Like a soldier who had no fight left and nothing left to give. But he couldn't, he knew. One day certainly. But not now. So he turned and forced himself away from the place and away from John.


	7. Somewhere Only We Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, the song in this chapter is Somewhere Only We Know by Keane.

“They've finally cottoned on Sherlock. It's taken them two bloody years but they finally know that you weren't making stuff up,” John said quietly, whilst he spoke to Sherlock's grave. Then he added, “But it's too late isn't it?” and looked up as a soft hand slipped into his. 

 

It was Mary. The woman who it seemed understood what he was going through and who had been there for him. The woman who had become his girlfriend after hours of conversations and late evening tea or coffee. The woman he now hoped might, if he was lucky enough, marry him. 

 

“Are you all right?” she asked him gently and he nodded but when she squeezed his hand she let him know that she knew he wasn't and John felt grateful to her once more, for everything she'd given him after...after Sherlock. 

 

He'd been low. So low. Even more so than he'd felt after he'd returned from Afghanistan. But somehow when he'd met Mary through work things had seemed a little lighter somehow. She'd listened to him and between them there had grown a sense of silent understanding. And instead of throwing himself into a relationship with women like he had done when Sherlock was around things had been different with Mary, slower but better. He'd even confessed to her about the brief relationship with Sherlock and she'd been so weirdly understanding and accepting of it that John had repeated himself just to make sure that she'd properly heard. Then she'd laughed and he'd kissed her. And as cheesy and pathetic as it sounded things hadn't seemed so bad then. 

 

*

 

Sherlock breathed in the cool, pollution-filled air and scanned the buildings around him. Only a few hours ago he'd been a mess. Wearing dirty, torn clothes and with a straggly hair and beard. But now, having been cleaned up in his brother's office and with his coat and scarf back where they should be his mind had turned to London and inevitably to John. His mind had first told him, naturally, that when he returned everything would be the way it was and everything would continue to be like the way it was. It hadn't even let him consider any other possibility. But when Mycroft had shown him that hideous photo of John, now with a moustache, and informed him that John no longer lived at 221B, Sherlock had felt a twinge of something. He supposed now that it was uncertainty but definitely not worry, no definitely not that. For if John had found somewhere else to live did that mean that he had perhaps found someone else too? Sherlock swallowed then he reassured himself. For after all it was just speculation, he had no evidence. And until he did he wouldn't think about it. But of course he did. For two years his mind had been filled with John...John...John in his darkest moments and thoughts of protecting him, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. But if John had moved on, if John no longer wanted him, had all his struggles been for nothing? But of course they hadn't, his mind argued, because of John...John would be dead without what he'd done. John...John...John...and Sherlock ran a hand through his hair now, before he growled, “Shut up,” at no one, turned and left his vantage point. 

 

Yet as soon as he saw John and that bloody small box in the restaurant he knew. That there was someone else, perhaps another intelligent man, but less intelligent than him obviously, who had swept in and stolen his John and-oh God. It was a woman!

 

Sherlock's eyes grew as she sat down opposite John and John looked pleased but nervous at the same time as he fingered the little box that was now safely tucked in his pocket. 

 

And before Sherlock knew what he was doing he'd disguised himself as a waiter and started talking to John and his...woman...about wines but it wasn't any good. John's attention was completely fixed on her so Sherlock plopped the wine bottle on their table with a thud and whipped off the glasses that he'd stolen for part of his disguise, before he pocketed them. For there was only one thing left. So he opened his mouth and sang, “I walked across an empty land, I knew the pathway like the back of my hand, I felt the earth beneath my feet, sat by the river and it made me complete.”

 

John froze and then his head jerked up to look at Sherlock and his mouth dropped open. 

 

Sherlock looked into the eyes that he'd missed and feeling encouraged continued, “Oh simple thing, where have you gone? I'm getting tired and I need someone to rely on.”

 

“Oh no,” John muttered, whilst Mary looked in between the two in confusion. 

 

And Sherlock, feeling slightly less encouraged and more scared but too much of a coward to confront what John's, 'Oh no,' might mean sang, “I came across a fallen tree, I felt the branches of it looking at me. Is this the place we used to love? Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?” John opened his mouth again, but Sherlock couldn't bear the look that was starting to form on his face so he hurriedly continued, “Oh simple thing, where have you gone? I'm getting old and I need something to rely on. And if you have a minute, why don't we go, talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything. So why don't we go somewhere only we know? Somewhere only we know.”

 

John stood up and although the song wasn't over Sherlock instantly quietened under his gaze. Then, because John's hard look was starting to unnerve him he mumbled, “I guess the simple version would be-not dead,” whilst he looked a little guiltily into John's eyes. 

 

“Two years,” John breathed and Mary looked at him with a sudden understanding. 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock began tentatively, swaying a little anxiously, before he pointed at John's face and asked, “Are you really going to keep that?”

 

“Oh my God, have you any idea of what you've put him through?” Mary asked and Sherlock swallowed, before he picked up a napkin and for something to do, began to wipe off his fake moustache that he'd drawn on as part of his waiter disguise. 

 

Once he'd done it he could not help but ask John, “Does yours wipe off too?” before he staggered backwards as John punched him. 

 

Then they tried to go and eat somewhere else and then somewhere else again because John kept attacking him and Christ did he really have to keep doing that? Sherlock thought as he held a bloody handkerchief to his nose. And even when he tried to explain, even when he corrected John and told him that only his brother, Molly and around twenty-not a hundred-of the homeless network had known John still wasn't satisfied. And even when Mary told Sherlock that she'd try to speak to John, Sherlock wasn't convinced. For why would she talk to him when she must know about what he had been to John? And if she really wanted John to herself then-but his thought broke off as he saw John and Mary leave in a taxi, with John stubbornly looking away from where Sherlock was. 

 

Sherlock watched them go with a sinking feeling in his heart because it wasn't meant to be like this. John was supposed to understand. He wasn't supposed to have found someone else. They were supposed to kiss or something and then go on solving cases together and making fun of Mycroft and...stuff.

 

Then it began to rain so with his head slightly bowed against it Sherlock walked off down the street.

 

He went to see Molly first, then Lestrade, then Mrs. Hudson. Molly, since she’d known that he wasn’t dead anyway took it all with a bit of a gasp. Lestrade called him a bastard and then gave him a large hug, which freaked Sherlock out a bit. The hug not the name-calling. And Mrs. Hudson, let’s just say that Sherlock had never seen her scream so much. He thought for a moment that she might die from shock or something so he hastily decided to sit her down and make her a cup of tea for once. 

 

*

 

Mary watched as John stood in the small bathroom that was attached to their bedroom and shaved his moustache off. As she did so she found it both very amusing and very sad at the same time. Because she knew in that moment that whatever John felt like right now, hurt, angry, that he still loved Sherlock. And that he always would. She supposed also that maybe this was some weird, divine punishment or something for what she'd done in her life. Sherlock and John. Not John and Mary. 

 

“Are you all right?” John asked her as he cast a glance at her and as he did she smiled a little because his face was still covered with shaving foam. 

 

“There's me having to put up with whiskery kisses for months and then he comes back”-

 

“I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes,” he interrupted her with a bit of grin in spite of himself, but then, at her silence, he looked at her once more, before he approached her, still with shaving foam around half of his mouth. Then, “Mary,” he began uncertainly, for he wanted to tell her that it didn't matter, that they could still be together, that-

 

“You still love him,” she said, understanding him far too much as usual. 

 

He looked at her and swallowed because despite everything he couldn't even lie about it and part of him didn’t even want to because she deserved more than that. 

 

She nodded and brushed away the single tear that was on her face. He hadn't seen her cry before. She'd always been so strong, his Mary. And now he didn't know what to do. 

 

“Mary, I”- he finally began, but she shook her head and put a finger to his lips. 

 

Then, “It's all right John,” she said, before she leaned up to kiss his forehead and left the room. 

 

She felt so sad about it all. She really did. But there was no point in screaming. No point in trying to blame him for something he couldn't help. John loved Sherlock. It was just a simple fact. Like how you can't see at night. Just a fact. 

 

But that didn't stop her from crying silently. Or from feeling hurt about it all. Because she loved John too. 

 

*

 

“All very interesting, Sherlock, but the terror alert has been raised to critical,” Mycroft remarked as he sat across from his little brother. 

 

“Boring,” Sherlock stated and Mycroft rolled his eyes, before, “Your move,” Sherlock said.

 

“We have sold information. An attack is coming,” Mycroft attempted. 

 

“Solid information,” Sherlock replied scornfully, “A secret terrorist organisation is planning an attack. That’s what secret terrorist organisations do, isn't it? It’s their version of golf.” 

 

“I have given the Prime Minister my personal assurance that you’re on the case,” Mycroft tried yet once more, for surely at some point Sherlock would have to stop messing about and see how serious this all was. 

 

“I am on the case. We’re both on the case right now,” Sherlock replied just as a buzzing noise sounded and he looked at the Operation board game in curiosity. 

 

“Oh bugger,” Mycroft muttered. 

 

“Whoopsy,” Sherlock began with amusement in his eyes, “Can’t handle a broken heart. How very telling.”

 

“Don’t be smart,” Mycroft scolded him instinctively, though he felt annoyed with himself as much as he did with Sherlock. 

 

“That takes me back. ‘Don’t be smart, Sherlock, I'm the smart one.’”

 

“I am the smart one.”

 

“I used to think I was an idiot,” Sherlock confessed grouchily. 

 

“Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock,” Mycroft corrected him, “We had nothing else to go on, until we met other children.”

 

“Oh, yes. That was a mistake,” Sherlock remarked bitterly. 

 

“Ghastly,” Mycroft agreed as he pulled a face, before he added, “What were they thinking of?” 

 

“Probably something about trying to make friends,” Sherlock said with a small smile. 

 

“Oh, yes. Friends. Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now,” Mycroft said with a bit of a hard tone. 

 

“And you don’t? Ever?” Sherlock asked, for he genuinely was curious. 

 

“If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like? I'm living in a world of goldfish,” Mycroft explained. 

 

“Yes, but I've been away for two years,” Sherlock commented, for the thought had begun to occur to him that if everyone else had moved on with their lives, which it seemed like they had, and John’s face came fresh to his mind now, then surely Mycroft had too? 

 

“So?” Mycroft asked after a small pause, for he really didn't like the way in which the conversation seemed to be going. 

 

“Oh, I don’t know…” Sherlock began a little more carefully than he usually did around his brother, “I thought you perhaps might have found yourself a…goldfish.”

 

Mycroft’s face became a picture of horror, before he hurriedly got to his feet and made to leave. 

 

“No luck with Lestrade then?” Sherlock asked to his brother’s retreating back and Mycroft shot him a glare over his shoulder, before he hastily departed. 

 

It was true though, he thought, as he sat in the back of a sleek, black car on his way back to work. He hadn’t had any luck in that area, even with Sherlock away. Once John had blamed Mycroft for what had happened and Lestrade had heard and came to tell Mycroft that he tended to agree with John that had been that. And there had been no further contact between them unless it had been strictly necessary. They had gone back to surname terms and Lestrade it seemed had gone back to thinking that Mycroft was a pompous git. Something that Mycroft, slightly despairingly, didn't think would change, even now, that Sherlock was back. 

 

*

 

Sherlock tried to work with Molly. He really did. She'd helped him fake his death after all so he figured that she might enjoy helping him on his cases, even though he could instantly tell that she had a boyfriend now and that she had moved on too. Inevitably it didn't work and they went their separate ways. 

 

He went to get some chips and it worried him for a moment that he wanted to eat them so badly, that he thought that doing so might make him feel a bit better because not only was it illogical according to his mind, but did that mean he was turning into Mycroft? Turning to food to make himself feel-the thought made him shudder. 

 

He took them back to 221B and his mouth twitched when Mrs. Hudson struggled not to tell him to be careful with them and not make a mess, before his expression changed completely when he heard Mary enter, when she showed him the skip code and his mind went John...John...John and he felt suddenly far more grateful for Mary's presence. Because if John was hurt now when he was back, when he could have protected him then...

 

And they were off, stealing a motorbike and getting closer to John...John...John. But where was he? What did all the texts mean? And then-Sherlock happened to glance into a park where a Guy Fawkes effigy was being burnt on a bonfire and he understood and he was both thankful and not thankful at the same time for that fact and then he was off the bike and running and praying and tugging frantically at the already hot bits of wood and Mary was right behind him and she helped him tug John out and they stared and called his name as he coughed a little and looked dazed, before he spun out of their reality and fell unconscious. 

 

* 

 

Mary looked down the hospital corridor that Sherlock was pacing back and forth down. John was currently being seen to and now Mary wasn't quite sure whether to go and talk to Sherlock or just sit down and wait quietly. There was no question in her mind about whether to stay or not however. John might love Sherlock more but that did not mean that she could just stop caring about him. 

 

And it was really her strong feelings for John that led to her going to talk to Sherlock after all. 

 

“I know you love him but what you did before”- she began as Sherlock turned and made to walk past her. 

 

Sherlock stopped, took a step back and then said a little roughly, “I did it to protect him. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade too. They would have been killed if I hadn't.”

 

She didn't say anything for a moment. Then she looked him in the eyes and said firmly, “You have to tell him.”

 

“I tried,” Sherlock replied abruptly and he made to turn around and continue his pacing in the other direction but Mary grabbed his wrist and he wrenched it free, before he turned to look at her again. 

 

“Not about that. Well, not just that anyway. But about how you feel and how hard these past two years have been on you. He thinks that out of the two of you he’s been the only one suffering. Make him see different.”

 

“I”-

 

“It’s obvious to anyone who happens to look at you when you look at him you know. But John…he needs to be told. That’s the only way he’ll see it,” she said gently and Sherlock’s eyes widened a fraction, whilst his throat began to feel dry. 

 

Then she gave him half a smile and turned to sit down. But before she sat, she looked at him and said, “But if you ever hurt him like that again…”

 

Sherlock nodded. He might be pretty oblivious to most social interaction but he did not need to have that spelt out for him. 

 

*

 

“Did you know?” a voice asked, and it jerked Mycroft out of his thought from where he had been sitting in a corner at the Diogenes Club. 

 

He was rather taken aback to see that it was Lestrade. But he was very much aware too of how all the other occupants of the club had chosen to look their way disapprovingly at the way Lestrade had broken their peaceful silence. So he shot Lestrade a bit of a look, stood and gestured for the other man to follow him to the Stranger’s Room. 

 

Once they were there Mycroft went to lean against the desk and folded his arms, whilst Lestrade remained standing, his shoulders a little slumped, his hair a bit dishevelled and his suit visibly creased underneath his dark coat. It took all of Mycroft’s self-will not to go over there and straighten it out. 

 

But then Lestrade repeated his question, “Did you know?” he asked. 

 

And Mycroft considered both the man in front of him and the question, which had been posed for a moment with unblinking eyes, before he bowed his head. 

 

Lestrade swallowed and then thought about it all as Mycroft raised his head to look at him. Then finally he said, “Didn't you have any idea, between you, what it would do to John?” But Mycroft didn't answer so Lestrade continued, “No, I'm sorry, I should remember who I'm talking about,” and with that he made to turn on his heel and leave. 

 

But before he could go Mycroft uttered, “Wait,” though he instantly regretted it the moment that the word tumbled involuntarily from his mouth and Lestrade turned back to look at him. Mycroft swallowed underneath the man’s hard gaze, before he licked his dry lips and wondered what to say. He wanted partly to say that Lestrade was right, that more care should have been taken, that they should have considered John and all the other people it would affect in greater detail, because he knew that, that was what Lestrade wanted. But what eventually came out of his mouth was, “It was necessary.”

 

It was the absolute wrong thing to say. For Lestrade’s expression became a somewhat ugly one, before he said grimly, “Of course it was,” and then left the room. 

 

For the first time Mycroft felt utterly hopeless and it wasn't Sherlock’s fault. 

 

* 

 

Finally back at 221B John did not know what he felt more dazed from. The fact that he had nearly been burnt alive or the fact that Sherlock’s parents, who seemed by all accounts so ordinary, had just left the building and Sherlock seemed embarrassed that John had come across them. 

 

But what left his mouth as he gingerly sat down surprised even him, “I think I might be moving back here,” he said. 

 

“Oh?” Sherlock commented as he raised an eyebrow. 

 

John frowned a little. For he was not a fan of when Sherlock did his, ‘I'm so casual but really I'm pleased,’ thing. Then he fiddled with his trousers for a moment, before he said, “Yeah…” as he placed his palms face down on his knees, “I, well, I don’t think it’s going to work out, between me and Mary I mean…so yeah.”

 

“Shame,” Sherlock said and John thought he saw the faintest flicker of a smile as the consulting detective looked away from him. 

 

“So is that okay? Me moving back in here I mean?” John asked. 

 

Sherlock seemed to think about the matter for a moment. Then he gave a bit of a shrug, before he nodded and said, “Yes, it should be I imagine. Mrs. Hudson will be pleased to have you back here at any rate,” and then he shot John a quick, fake smile. 

 

“And you?” John asked tersely. 

 

Sherlock swallowed, before he quickly forced out, “Well I love you so I'm pleased, naturally.”

 

John stared at him. Had he really said that or-but Sherlock was smiling and simultaneously looking a bit nervous and then John was on his feet and crossing the room and hugging Sherlock tight with one arm. 

 

And it took Sherlock, who was startled by the whole thing, a moment, before he put his hands tentatively on John’s waist. 

 

“Sherlock,” John whispered as he breathed in the familiar smell and tried to remember it forever, “I thought….I thought I’d lost you, you bastard.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock breathed and his hands instinctively held onto John a little bit tighter, as he rested his head on top of John’s. 

 

John swallowed and as he did so he realized that his face was damp. 

 

“I had to. You know that, John, don’t you?” Sherlock told him, his voice a little stronger and John pulled his head away so that he could look at him and as he did so his breath caught in his chest a little because those blue eyes had never looked so emotional before. “I-I was doing it to protect you. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson too. He said he’d kill you all if I didn't.”

 

John stroked the side of Sherlock’s face now, before he asked, “But when he died”-

 

“He had a whole network. I had to”-

 

“Oh Christ,” John muttered, his hand frozen on Sherlock’s skin as he began to truly realize what Sherlock might have been through in the past two years. Then he lowered his hand and shoved Sherlock slightly, “You should have told me. We could have done it together you prat”-

 

“I couldn't risk”- Sherlock began, but he didn't get any further because John kissed him. 

 

It was slow at first but it became deep very quickly and John was barely aware of how his hands were gripping Sherlock’s face for all he was worth as he stood on his tiptoes or how Sherlock’s hands were steadying him on his waist. 

 

They broke apart with a bit of a gasp and John opened his eyes to see that Sherlock was looking tentative but happy. 

 

“No more secrets all right? Even if it’s to protect me. It’s not worth it”-

 

“It is,” Sherlock interrupted him adamantly. 

 

“I mean it Sherlock,” John told him, “I can’t-I can’t go through that again,” and when Sherlock, beaten down, nodded, John kissed him again. 

 

*

 

But then they got themselves into a situation where their lives were both at risk as they stood inside an empty tube carriage that was in reality one giant bomb sitting right underneath the Houses of Parliament ready to explode. 

 

And Sherlock was crying and gasping because he had so much knowledge in his head but he didn't know how to diffuse a bomb and John was spinning around and close to breaking down because so much had happened and now…this. And then, because he had to face that this was it, that there was no escape he said, “I love you Sherlock and no matter what anyone else thinks you've always been the bravest and the wisest man to me and”- he broke off because Sherlock was laughing and it took a moment for John to realize that he had been tricked again. “You bastard”- John began. 

 

“Your face,” Sherlock gasped, practically crying with laughter, “Your face.”

 

And John shook his head and rested his hands on his knees as he gasped with relief and wondered how he’d managed to fall so much in love with a man of such intelligence who also happened to be the world’s biggest idiot. 

 

A moment later the police were swarming through to them and at a hotel, somewhere in London, a man called Sebastian Moran was being arrested. 

 

Then after all the chaos and explanations had ceased John and Sherlock found themselves back at 221B with their friends and Molly’s new boyfriend, who raised everyone’s eyebrows with his similarities to Sherlock, and aside from that everything seemed right with the world. 

 

Oh and the damn press were there too, waiting outside to hear how their favourite consulting detective was back from the dead. 

 

“Will you ever tell me how you did it?” John asked as he and Sherlock went downstairs to deal with them all. 

 

“Maybe one day,” Sherlock replied over his shoulder, before he put a familiar hat on his head and went out with John following to face all the flashing cameras. 

 

And John knew that, that would have to be enough for now.


	8. The Only Exception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a Johnlock wedding and finally some real progress with Mystrade!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,   
> the songs in this chapter are-  
> Last Friday Night [Katy Perry]  
> The Only Exception [Paramore]  
> She Loves You [The Beatles.]  
> Thanks for your support and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

“I’m bored, let’s get married.”

 

John jerked his head up from where he’d been typing his blog and looked across at where Sherlock had been mindlessly flicking through TV channels. Only Sherlock wasn't looking at the TV any more, he was looking at John. 

 

So, “What?” John asked. 

 

“I said, ‘I'm bored, let’s get married,’” Sherlock repeated, as something in his eyes flickered a little. 

 

“I know what you said,” John replied numbly, because it had been an ordinary kind of evening, well for them anyway, and now this…

 

“Oh,” Sherlock said and he looked back at the TV for a moment, before he looked up at John and asked, “Did you not like the idea?” 

 

John felt even more astonished and exasperated now so he stated, “Sherlock we’re not even engaged, we can’t just”-

 

“Oh the engagement’s the boring part. Can’t we skip that bit?” Sherlock asked as he waved a hand. 

 

“All-All right,” John said tentatively and Sherlock smiled, stood up and took John’s hand, which compelled John to add in alarm, “But we still need to plan it! We can’t just”-Sherlock’s smile faltered now so John tried to explain-“Getting married. It’s kind of a big deal Sherlock.”

 

“Is it?” Sherlock asked, still bored. 

 

“Yeah,” John replied hesitantly. 

 

“Oh,” Sherlock said, whilst he traced a finger through the dust that clung to the table John sat by. 

 

And he looked so suddenly downcast that it made John say, “But planning takes time, right? So imagine how busy you’ll be if you don’t have a case now?” and to his relief Sherlock’s head jerked up and he looked kind of both happy and crazy at the same time with a manic grin that showed his teeth. 

 

*

 

“Oh, my boys, it’s about time,” Mrs. Hudson said fondly as she cupped one hand over the backs of their heads-Sherlock had to bend considerably-and then patted their arms. “I hope you asked him in a romantic fashion, Sherlock dear,” she added as she peered quite seriously at Sherlock. 

 

“Of course I did,” Sherlock said with a bit of an indignant shrug as if it was a simple fact, but when there was silence and no one backed him up he looked over at John and asked persistently, “Didn't I John?”

 

“Um,” John began and Sherlock raised his eyebrows, whilst Mrs. Hudson looked in between them. 

 

“No?” Sherlock asked. 

 

“No,” John confirmed. 

 

“Oh,” Sherlock uttered and his face fell a bit as he wondered how he’d managed to get things wrong again. 

 

“But it was fine, really,” John said, attempting to cheer Sherlock up because he didn't want him to be down about this. 

 

*

 

“Married? Christ, does he know about things like that?” Lestrade asked as he and John stood a little away from the body that Sherlock was inspecting at a crime scene. 

 

John grinned a bit, before he replied, “Well, he definitely doesn't know the meaning of a romantic proposal. I guess it was a good thing he was asking another bloke really…” but he trailed off because Lestrade’s face had turned suddenly hard. 

 

“I hear congratulations are in order,” a silky voice came and John suddenly realized that Mycroft was standing behind him so he spun around to look at the man who wore a grey three-piece suit and carried his usual umbrella. When he’d done so Mycroft continued, “Mrs. Hudson informed me when I visited 221B this morning to find that you and Sherlock were out. I admit it was a surprise that my brother hadn't seen fit to”-

 

“Oh, don’t pretend that you don’t know,” Sherlock called over, “I found another one of your cameras last night.”

 

John decided to ignore him and said instead, “We haven’t told many people yet. We’re kind of in the middle of doing that bit,” but Mycroft just stared at him for a minute. 

 

Then Mycroft’s attention turned to Lestrade and he wore an unreadable expression as he gave a stiff kind of nod, before he said curtly, “Detective Inspector.”

 

“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade nodded back and John looked between the pair in exasperation, before Mycroft turned on his heel and walked away.

 

John knew full well from Sherlock’s snarky comments that Mycroft had feelings for Lestrade but he didn't know much about what Lestrade’s were. He decided that at some point he needed to find out, though he quickly decided that right then wasn't appropriate because Sherlock had started talking, before he beckoned them over. 

 

*

 

“Congratulations John…Sherlock. I hope you’ll be very happy together,” Molly got out as she looked between them when they entered the morgue. 

 

Sherlock waved a hand, said something along the lines of, “Happiness…dull,” and John just managed to give Molly an apologetic look, before Sherlock started to question her abruptly about a body. 

 

*

 

John blinked as he woke up and blearily looked at the clock. It was half-past eight. He’d had more sleep in the past night than he’d had in the past four days put together. There’d been a double murder and they’d been sent all around London, searching for clues, after the murderer-who was now locked up-had left them notes. 

 

“Oh good,” Sherlock said as he entered the room and John looked up at him in confusion. 

 

Sherlock smiled, walked across and ruffled John’s hair because he knew how much John hated that, especially when he’d just woke up. Then he urged, “Come on John, our best man’s waiting for you in the living room,” and disappeared out of the room again. 

 

John rubbed at his eyes for a moment, before he got out of bed, whilst he felt curious and changed quickly. But he still expected to see someone like Lestrade in the living room, not, “Mary,” he breathed. 

 

She smiled at him a little tentatively and then Sherlock said, “Of course, John. Who did you expect? She looked after you so well, whilst I was away that there could really be no one better.”

 

John smiled a little hesitantly and then at Mary’s expression, which said that she was waiting for him to move first, he strode across the room and hugged her tightly. “It’ll be really great to have your help,” he said earnestly, before he added, “If you’re definitely okay with it?” as he pulled away. 

 

She nodded, before she told him, “I could hardly turn it down. It would be a disaster with you two planning it alone. Skulls on the table. Eyeballs in the champagne,” and John laughed, whilst Sherlock looked unusually serious. 

 

*

 

Sherlock, in fact, took the planning of said wedding far more seriously than anyone could have imagined. Even down to the exact folding of all the paper napkins. 

 

Mary sent them out on a case just to get them doing something more normal together. A guardsman named Bainbridge had contacted Sherlock, fearing that he was being stalked. Yet when he and John reached the Guard’s quarters they found Bainbridge with a stab wound in the shower room. And it was only when John further examined him that he discovered the man was still alive. As far as distractions for the wedding went saving a man’s life was definitely a good one in John’s book. 

 

Then of course there was the time that Sherlock phoned Lestrade and said that there was an emergency at 221B and Lestrade got several police cars and a helicopter down there only to find that Sherlock was panicking about his, ‘thank you all for coming,’ speech. 

 

_Your brother is ridiculous-GL. Lestrade texted when it was all over._

 

_What’s he done now? MH. Mycroft texted back underneath the table as he was in a meeting._

 

_He said that there was an emergency at 221B. Got there to find him worrying about his wedding speech-GL._

 

_Bless. MH._

 

_Though privately this wedding business is becoming a bit of a nuisance. Its all Mummy ever talks about. MH._

 

_She’ll be waiting for you now-GL._

 

_Don’t even go there. MH._

 

*

 

The months passed quickly after that in a haze of running, cases and planning. 

 

Mary proved invaluable to them both, for she always knew when they needed a break and when they would feel better by getting on with the job at hand. 

 

And finally it was the night before the stag night or the first stag night if you preferred because John had arranged to go out with Lestrade at their local. 

 

Sherlock meanwhile planned to run through everything with Mary to make sure that nothing had been left unchecked, for what felt like the thousandth time-to John anyway. 

 

“He’s gone mad. They both have. I sometimes think they should be marrying each other,” John told Lestrade, before he sipped his pint. 

 

Lestrade giggled a little-he felt a little light headed-and said, “Christ, I can barely get over the fact that Sherlock’s getting married to begin with.”

 

“What about you, then?” John asked, drinking at a slower pace than Lestrade because he’d figured that the perfect time to talk about Mycroft was when Lestrade was a little drunk. 

 

And Lestrade, whilst he leaned on the bar, looked at him. 

 

“I mean you and your wife stopped getting back together right?” John persisted and when Lestrade nodded John went on, “So don’t you perhaps think it might be time to try and be with someone else?”

 

Lestrade downed the rest of his drink in one and gestured for the bar man to get him another, then he looked at John again and asked, “Like who?”

 

“I don’t know,” John began, buying himself some time as he looked around a bit and tried to act all casual, “I mean I know Molly’s got a boyfriend right now but I'm not sure if it will last so there’s always her…or Mycroft.”

 

“Mycroft?” Lestrade questioned a little too loudly and as he picked up his fresh pint he sloshed a bit of beer over himself and cursed. Then he waved a hand and added, “Pah.”

 

“No?” John questioned, before he added a bit hastily as Lestrade looked at him as if he was out of his mind, “I mean I know he’s a bit cold and all but”-

 

“Cold?” Lestrade said, shaking his head, “No, no,” and he waved a hand now, “He’s fucking up himself that’s what he is. No, he doesn't give a toss about anybody that man. Aside maybe Sherlock. Yeah, Sherlock. But he’s got you for that now so he probably won’t need to bother much with his little brother any more. ‘Cept when he risks embarrassment.”

 

And John swallowed, before he hurriedly changed the topic, whilst he simultaneously hoped that Mycroft didn't have any cameras on Lestrade. 

 

*

 

A few hours later Mycroft would watch the footage of Lestrade and John in the pub and flush with embarrassment when John mentioned him. But his heart couldn't help it. It lifted slightly in anticipation of Lestrade’s answer but when he gave it, it fell hard. 

 

Then, “You’re wrong,” he told the drunk man who couldn't hear him firmly. Then with a sigh he buried his head in his hands and hoped for answers that would solve the mystery that was Lestrade. 

 

*

 

John could barely believe it when, the following evening, he saw that Sherlock was monitoring their alcohol level so that they wouldn't get drunk. The first thing he thought was ‘Christ.’ The second thing was, ‘that, that would have to go,’ because he had never seen Sherlock drunk before and even if he himself couldn't remember it in the morning at least he would know that he had experienced it. 

 

So the first opportunity he could he spiked Sherlock’s alcohol. 

 

Somehow they ended up in a gay bar, with one arm flung around each other on the small stage as they sang, ‘Last Friday Night.’

 

“There’s a stranger in my bed,” Sherlock began as he pointed at John, before he pointed at his forehead, “There’s a pounding in my head.”

 

“Glitter all over the room,” John sang, as he waved his hands as he cut in front of Sherlock. 

 

“Pink flamingoes in the pool,” Sherlock added as he lifted John off his feet and moved him aside, all whilst John gave his best impression of a pink flamingo garden ornament. 

 

“I smell like a mini bar,” John sang with a bit of a grimace as he waved his hand in front of his nose.

 

“DJ’s passed out in the yard,” Sherlock sang as he pointed out into the enthusiastic crowd, most of who were jumping up and down. 

 

“Barbies on the barbecue,” John added as he flung an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders once more.

 

“Is this a hickey or a bruise?” Sherlock questioned as he pointed to his neck and John quickly kissed it. 

 

Then John sang, “Pictures of last night ended up on-line. I'm screwed. Oh well.”

 

“It’s a blacked-out blur,” Sherlock continued whilst he ruffled his own hair, “But I'm pretty sure it ruled. Damn,” before he jumped into the air, landed and he and John sang together, “Last Friday night, yeah we danced on table tops, and we took too many shots, think we kissed but I forgot,” and now they pecked each other on the lips. “Last Friday night, yeah we maxed our credit cards,” and now Sherlock took out his wallet and began throwing notes of money into the crowd, whilst John half-protested and giggled at the same time, “And got kicked out of the bar,” and now they both jumped off the small stage and began to weave through the crowd until they made it into the cold night air, “So we hit the boulevard.”

 

“Last Friday night, we went streaking in the park, skinny dipping in the dark, then had a ménage a trios,” they sang in between giggling and jogging down the street. 

 

“Last Friday night,” they continued as they stopped a little breathlessly, before Sherlock giggling a bit too much, accidentally broke off the wing mirror of a car that he’d started to lean on. Then with a bit of a shrug he tossed it aside. 

 

“Yeah I think we broke the law,” John sang as he stumbled around to Sherlock. 

 

“Always say we’re gonna stop-op ooh-ooh,” Sherlock whispered huskily, before he met John’s lips with his own and then mid-kiss they both promptly fell over, set the car alarm off as they knocked against it and giggled like teenagers as they lay side by side on the damp pavement.

 

*

 

When they got back to 221B and finally managed to get upstairs as Mrs. Hudson both tutted and smiled at them as she stood in the hallway, it wasn't long before a case in the form of a woman came to them. 

 

Tessa, a private nurse, had gone to a man’s apartment for dinner but several days later had discovered that the apartment was empty and that the man had died weeks ago. Or something like that anyway. John didn't know. He just wanted to sleep. But Sherlock insisted that they go and clue for looks or something so they did. 

 

Then Sherlock was sick and that was all John remembered, before suddenly he was in a cell with Sherlock and being loudly woken up by Lestrade. 

 

*

 

_Just sent your brother and John home. Completely pissed both of them. Lightweights-GL._

 

_You have my thanks. MH._

 

*

 

A week later John watched as Sherlock came in between the rows of red chairs in the registry office towards him, being escorted by his father, and John felt as if it all must be some strange dream. Was he really doing this? Was he really marrying Sherlock Holmes?

 

But as Sherlock, wearing a dark suit and a blue cravat that matched his eyes, joined him and squeezed his hand, before he gave him a small, nervous smile John knew it was real. And quite frankly he just wished that the vows were already said so he could kiss him. 

 

Sherlock’s mother cried all the way through the vows. And through the corner of his eye John could see Sherlock’s father as he tried to contain her. 

 

Then when Mary passed them the rings-a ring with a skull on for John to remind him through all Sherlock’s crazy how much he really did love him and a ring with a light bulb on it for Sherlock to remind him that John, for all his stupidity, could sometimes be rather illuminating or something. 

 

And then it was over and they were suddenly being photographed outside and Sherlock was trying to convince the photographer to take their photos just around the corner where he had found a body once without much success. Sherlock was also standing very close to John. To the point where Sherlock, even when he was supposed to be having a photograph just with Mycroft, dragged John into the frame. And John, who’d found Sherlock’s odd kind of nervous clinginess rather sweet up until that point suddenly didn't find it all that sweet any more. Not when he was sandwiched between the two brothers who towered over him. And not only that but Mycroft’s aftershave was rather strong too so John had to struggle not to wrinkle his nose as the photo was being taken. 

 

Then it was time for the reception. 

 

And suddenly in the middle of a rather rambling speech where Sherlock had been using the case of the Bloody Guardsman and the Mayfly Man to illustrate his points he stopped dead and John looked at him. Then he froze because he knew that look. Sherlock was onto something. 

 

Indeed he was. Sherlock was remembering now how when they’d been clueing for looks Tessa had used John’s middle name. The same middle name that John hated. So she could have only known it through noticing one of the spare wedding invitations that had been in 221B when she’d come to tell them about the case. Sherlock deduced quietly therefore that Tessa had worked in some capacity for John’s old army commander Sholto-a known recluse who had decided to come to the wedding. Therefore Tessa had been used by the Mayfly Man simply to allow him to gain access to Sholto. 

 

Sherlock strode across the room now, as he rambled away to keep everyone’s attention on him, then he slipped Sholto a note quietly and Sholto returned to his room as Sherlock turned and looked at John as he said, “Vatican cameos”

 

John’s face instantly tensed. 

 

“What does it mean?” Mary asked him quickly. 

 

“It means someone is going to die,” John told her in a low voice, before he jumped up and followed Sherlock out of the room, Mary close behind him.

 

But when they made it to Sholto’s room after Mary remembered what number room was his Sholto would not let them in. 

 

Sherlock then realized that the case of the Bloody Guardsman had been a practice run for this and that both men had been stabbed with a stiletto-type blade beforehand, but the damage as with Bainbridge, would only take effect on Sholto when the belt he was wearing on his military uniform was loosened. 

 

John’s heart thudded when he heard Sholto consider suicide and it was only when Sherlock, after seeing John’s face, told Sholto that it would be a cruel thing to do, especially on John’s wedding day, that Sholto finally opened the door and let John help him. 

 

Meanwhile Sherlock identified the wedding photographer as the Mayfly Man, for his brother had been one of those killed under Sholto’s command. 

 

And finally, with the Mayfly Man taken away by the police, Sholto on his way to hospital, John and Sherlock could get back to their reception and the small matter of their first dance as a married couple. 

 

“Before we dance,” Sherlock began when he and John were in the centre of the floor and everyone’s attention was on them. “And I think I should warn you that after my lessons John should be very impressive,” Sherlock added and John managed to blush and scowl at the same time as everyone laughed and his sister Harry wolf-whistled, an almost empty bottle of alcohol in her hand, “I wanted to tell you all, to tell John,” and now Sherlock grasped John’s hand and turned ever so slightly to look into his eyes, “That I chose this song for a reason and the words are everything that I want to say.”

 

Most people ‘awwed’ at that. Sherlock’s mother along with Mrs. Hudson started to cry again and Molly gasped, “That’s so sweet,” whilst Lestrade and Mycroft locked eyes for a second and then looked hurriedly away from each other. 

 

Sherlock smiled now and he and John turned towards each other. Sherlock’s hands slipped to John’s waist and John’s hands moved upwards to rest on Sherlock’s shoulders. And as the music started to play and they started to sway along to, ‘The Only Exception,’ nothing could have made the moment any more perfect than it was. 

 

*

 

Lestrade was a little drunk. He’d been drinking steadily throughout the whole reception, thanks in no small part to Mycroft’s presence, and now he really thought he might be better off going home. 

 

So he stumbled towards the door, only to trip as he was on the verge of going down the three stone steps that led to the main door and he would have fallen flat on his face had a pair of strong arms not caught him and pulled him upright. 

 

Mycroft’s breath caught uncomfortably tight in his chest as Lestrade spun around and suddenly they were so close that he could see himself reflected in those brown eyes that he’d spent so much time thinking about. In between all those hours spent holding a ‘minor’ position in the government of course. But as Lestrade shifted slightly Mycroft let go of him instinctively and asked as evenly as he could, “Where are you going?”

 

“ ‘Ome,” Lestrade shrugged, whilst he looked around as if the conversation was boring to him but really it was the alcohol that made him do that. 

 

Mycroft swallowed. Then he made up his mind and steadied Lestrade as he wobbled with one hand, before he said, “I’ll take you. Come on.”

 

“ ‘M fine,” Lestrade mumbled, before he muttered, “All right,” as Mycroft expertly steered him down the steps, across the small entrance and outside into the awaiting black car. 

 

The journey was a fairly long one and it was a silent one until Lestrade finally realized that they were going in the wrong direction to be going to his flat and asked, “Thought we were going home?”

 

Mycroft smoothed the invisible creases out of his trousers, before he laid his palms flat against them as he said, “That was before I realized how intoxicated you are Detective Inspector.”

 

“Gregory,” Lestrade fumbled out and Mycroft raised one perfect eyebrow at him, “Gregory, not, not that,” he waved a hand now, “I like it when you call me Gregory.”

 

Mycroft’s cheeks instantly became a delicate shade of pink, before his heart gave a great jolt and almost jumped completely out of his chest when Lestrade’s head knocked sideways against the top of his arm, before it jerked up again and Lestrade rested it against the headrest. 

 

Mycroft looked away quickly and swallowed once and then again, before he summoned up the courage to look across and drew a breath as he did so. For Lestrade’s eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly open as he gurgled an incoherent sound and though he absolutely reeked of alcohol he looked more beautiful than Mycroft had ever seen him. 

 

*

 

“Gregory,” a soft voice breathed and something patted the sleepy officer on the arm. 

 

“Mm?” Lestrade managed as he slightly turned away from whatever it was and kept his eyes resolutely shut. 

 

“We’re here,” Mycroft said as he let go of him. 

 

Lestrade opened his eyes and stretched his arms out a little, before he apologized at once when he nearly hit Mycroft on the chin. 

 

Mycroft turned and got out of the car and was about to close the door behind him when there was a small sound of protest and he noticed when he turned around that Lestrade was on his hands and knees as he came across the back seat towards him. “I was going to go around and help you get out,” Mycroft told him a little impatiently because Lestrade wasn't adhering to his plan, one hand on his hip, whilst the other gestured in the cool air. 

 

“Wanna come out this way,” Lestrade mumbled and Mycroft crouched down a little with his hands outstretched, ready to support him if he fell. But it was too late. Lestrade tumbled face first out of the car and onto the driveway. Then he looked at Mycroft sheepishly and as he shook his head Mycroft helped him to his feet. 

 

Once they were both reasonably upright, as Lestrade talked about something incoherently and Mycroft panted a little from the exertion, Mycroft closed the car door and they watched as the sleek car was driven away by Mycroft’s driver Anton underneath the navy sky that glittered with stars. Then whilst the cooling breeze swirled around them Mycroft turned Lestrade around and half-tugged him up the remainder of the drive. When they reached the door Mycroft was forced to open it with his key one-handedly as Lestrade had chosen to lean rather heavily against him and shoulder the door open, before they finally made it inside. 

 

Lestrade stumbled out of his grip and looked around in awe, then he looked back at Mycroft, before he asked dazedly, “’R we back at the reception?” and promptly fell on his backside. 

 

As he helped him up Mycroft said with some amusement, “This is where I live Gregory.”

 

“Whoah,” Lestrade breathed, as he still looked around, whilst he held tightly onto one of Mycroft’s hands. 

 

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed, before he carefully led Lestrade into the main living room that was to the right of the entrance hall and pushed the man gently onto the brown leather settee. Then he stood back a little, took his jacket off and flung it across one of the chairs that was opposite the settee, before he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and with both hands now on his hips wondered out loud, “What am I going to do with you?” 

 

Lestrade was too busy looking around to reply. And after a moment Mycroft supposed that he should get a glass of water and perhaps a bowl just in case Lestrade was sick. So he made to turn around but he stopped dead when Lestrade said, “Dance with me,” in a slightly slurred voice. 

 

Naturally Mycroft turned around. Then, “I beg your pardon?” he asked, as he stared down at Lestrade who looked at him from the corner of the settee, one arm splayed across its top, the other fixed on the arm rest. 

 

“You weren't dancing earlier, I was watching and I-I was”-

 

“Drinking?” Mycroft suggested when Lestrade failed to find the correct word, whilst he simultaneously felt his heart jump a bit at the thought of Lestrade watching him. 

 

Lestrade nodded, before he got up and nearly fell straight into Mycroft’s arms when he stumbled. Mycroft steadied him as his heart beat uncomfortably loud in his chest and Lestrade looked at him sheepishly again, as his hair stuck up every which way. And Mycroft could not quite fathom how but somehow when Lestrade had stood his dark suit jacket had slipped off and now lay abandoned on the settee to reveal a crinkled white shirt underneath. As Lestrade looked at him Mycroft wondered what he was thinking. Then he finally realized that he, Mycroft Holmes, was staring at Lestrade, properly, openly staring and he blurted out hurriedly, “There’s no music.”

 

“Make some,” Lestrade muttered sleepily as his hands grasped Mycroft’s waist clumsily and his head fell to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder. 

 

Mycroft was not one, you must understand, to bring drunken men back to his home and dance and sing to them. But there was something about that moment, perhaps it was the fact that he’d felt so lost when it came to his feelings for Lestrade for so long, or the fact that Lestrade was drunk, which surely meant that he would not remember this come morning, that made him feel safe. 

 

Safe enough to sing in a soft, low voice, “When I was younger, I saw my daddy cry and curse at the wind. He broke his own heart and I watched as he tried to reassemble it.” Somewhere by his shoulder Lestrade gave a soft grunt of approval and Mycroft smiled a little, before, “And my momma swore that she would never let herself forget. And that was the day that I promised I’d never sing of love if it does not exist.” Then they began to sway gently and Lestrade tilted his head up and Mycroft took his hands in his and put one on his shoulder and held firm onto the other, before he sang both more earnestly and confidently, “But darling, you are the only exception. You are the only exception. You are the only exception. You are the only exception.” Their eyes met and as Lestrade looked at him with something akin to wonder and with a slightly open mouth Mycroft told himself that he was wrong. That Lestrade didn't realize what was happening. That he didn't understand that somehow he’d broken through Mycroft’s icy persona, in a way that even Mycroft didn't understand, and gotten into his very heart. That he wouldn't remember this in the morning. So Mycroft was safe enough to sing, “Maybe I know, somewhere deep in my soul that love never lasts. And we've got to find other ways to make it alone or keep a straight face.” Lestrade squeezed his hand and Mycroft squeezed back, his mind so full of Lestrade…Lestrade…Lestrade and the smell that was alcohol mixed with aftershave mixed with soap mixed with the faint smell of cigarette’s that he closed his eyes just momentarily to try and remember this for the rest of his life, before he opened them and sang, “And I've always lived like this, keeping a comfortable distance. And up until you I had sworn to myself that I'm content with loneliness. Because none of it was ever worth the risk.” Still Lestrade looked at him as if he was enraptured by the whole thing and Mycroft tried to look really deep in his eyes, tried to really tell him how much he meant everything as he sang, “Well you are the only exception. You are the only exception. You are the only exception. You are the only exception.”

 

And for a moment Mycroft thought that part of the message had got through because Lestrade’s mouth began to move a little, but when he spoke what he said was, “I'm tired My.”

 

My. Mycroft usually hated anyone shortening his name, but coming from Lestrade it sounded…lovely. All right, more than lovely, Mycroft confessed to himself. So lovely that as the very word came from Lestrade’s mouth and the warm breath that came with it danced across his skin and made it tingle it made Mycroft’s heart sing and made his whole face light up, before he covered it quickly with a casual and soft, “All right,” and escorted Lestrade back to the settee. 

 

As he carefully lowered Lestrade down onto it and was about to let go when their faces were just inches apart Lestrade said tiredly, “You have a really good voice My-Mycroft,” with a smile that stretched across his face. 

 

And Mycroft gave him a small smile, before he said, “Shhh,” gently and he straightened up, before, “I’ll go and get you some water for the morning.”

 

Lestrade nodded briefly and Mycroft left him, feeling satisfied as he did so that Lestrade would not move or get into any trouble when he was gone. 

 

But when he returned the settee was vacant. 

 

Mycroft, his throat suddenly dry, placed the glass of water on the wooden, dark coffee table that was to the side of the settee and then straightened up, whilst he looked around and thought hard. 

 

Then he hurried instinctively out into the entrance hall and looked up the stairs. Lestrade was gripping onto the banister with one hand, hunched down low and nearly at the top. It reminded Mycroft of one of the evolution drawings of apes becoming men and he didn't know how he’d missed Lestrade when he’d crossed the hall to return to the living room but somehow he had. So he scurried upstairs and carefully tried to maneuver Lestrade back downstairs. But Lestrade tugged his arm away from him, nearly stumbled and made to continue persistently upstairs. 

 

“The settee’s downstairs Gregory,” Mycroft reminded him. 

 

Lestrade waved a hand and muttered, “Want sleep.”

 

“Yes, that’s why”- Mycroft began but then he gave up. For Lestrade was now completely upstairs and Mycroft did not fancy trying to get him all the way back down again. So resigned he said, “This way then, follow me,” and led the way to the closest spare room. It was only when he pushed the white door open and looked behind him that he realized Lestrade wasn't there. So he hastily closed it again and looked down the empty hallway worriedly. He was left with no choice. He had to check every room and quickly, there was no telling what trouble Lestrade might get himself into if he was left alone for too long. Why he might drown himself in the bath or-

 

But as Mycroft pushed the door to his very own bedroom open he saw that Lestrade hadn't drowned, for he was there, sprawled on top of the duvet on the bed, looking for all the world as if he might spend the night there. Well, it was very comfortable, Mycroft thought dryly to himself, as he shuffled forwards and closed the door behind him. Then he swallowed, before he went across and slowly began to slip Lestrade’s feet out of his shoes. 

 

Lestrade’s head jerked upwards and Mycroft jumped back a little, before he flushed as he realized that it was possible Lestrade had thought, if he was capable of such a thing in his state that he was about to be molested. So he said in one small breath, “It’s me,” and to his relief Lestrade’s head fell back to the duvet again. 

 

Then once Lestrade’s shoes and socks were off Mycroft went carefully around and bent close to Lestrade’s head.

 

Lestrade mumbled something and rested his head on top of one hand, whilst he kept his eyes closed. 

 

Mycroft swallowed, for he felt all weird and perverted undressing Lestrade like this but he knew that Lestrade would be more uncomfortable if he didn't so he said gently, “I need to take your cravat off now, is that okay?”

 

Lestrade muttered something Mycroft couldn't understand and then snuggled closer to the duvet for a moment, before he seemed to resign himself and swung upwards and very nearly collided with Mycroft as he did so, before he settled himself into a sitting up position, his head slightly tilted and his eyes still closed. 

 

So taking that as a sign of permission Mycroft bent down slightly and with fumbling fingers began to untie Lestrade’s silver cravat. 

 

He was about done when Lestrade breathed, “You’d make a good nurse Myc,” and when Mycroft jumped a little and unintentionally pulled Lestrade closer as he did so, before he looked up, he saw that Lestrade’s eyes were now open. 

 

Lestrade gave him a lazy but satisfied kind of lopsided smile and then closed his eyes once more. 

 

Mycroft let out a small breath and then slid the cravat free and tossed it aside on the duvet, before he smoothed out the creases in Lestrade’s shirt, before he could help himself and undid the top two buttons. Then he forced himself away, before he did anything he might regret and took a few breaths as Lestrade flopped back down sideways onto the duvet. 

 

For a moment he just stood there and focused on his breathing, before he realized that Lestrade would really be more comfortable if he was underneath the duvet. So he stepped forwards again and with a lot of incoherent mumbling on Lestrade’s part he just about managed to coax the man so that the duvet was now over him, even if the sheets weren't. 

 

Mycroft stepped away to breathe and stare again and then he blinked, turned around, kicked his own shoes and socks off because it had been that kind of day and undid his own cravat. He put his back in its rightful drawer and then went to put Lestrade’s on the bedside table ready for the morning. Then he undid the top three buttons of his shirt and carefully settled on top of the duvet, before he sat back a bit and rested his head against the headboard. 

 

Lestrade mumbled something at the sudden movement on the bed and then turned around, before he pressed his hand to Mycroft’s thigh and snuggled close. 

 

Blood rushed to Mycroft’s face and for a moment he did nothing but freeze and tense up. Then after a while he relaxed a little and glanced down at Lestrade. The man seemed to be asleep. He peered a little closer. Yes, definitely asleep. Mycroft looked up and across at the far wall, not really seeing it as his mind became thoughtful again. 

 

Inevitably his mind was prominently on Lestrade. Lestrade being weirdly adorable when he kept falling over drunkenly. Lestrade’s sweet sort of amazement when he’d entered Mycroft’s home. Lestrade splayed across his settee asking him to dance and if Lestrade hadn't been too drunk to realize the importance of the moment it would have been close to one of the fantasies that Mycroft had concocted in his head. Except that whenever they had danced in his fantasies the dance had always ended with a kiss. And inevitably as he remembered Lestrade and the dance he remembered the song. It occurred to him that he hadn't finished singing it. 

 

So very quietly as the back of one of his hands instinctively brushed against Lestrade’s silver hair, before it rested back by his side, Mycroft sang, “I've got a tight grip on reality, but I can’t let go of what’s in front of me here. I know you’re leaving in the morning when you wake up. Leave me with some kind of proof, it’s not a dream, oh.” Why didn't Lestrade see how he felt? Why couldn't Mycroft get the words out? And now he checked once more that Lestrade was asleep, before he whispered in one quick, desperate breath, “I love you,” as one silver tear ran down his nose. Then he finished the song, “You are the only exception, you are the only exception, you are the only exception, you are the only exception. You are the only exception, you are the only exception, you are the only exception, you are the only exception. And I'm on my way to believing. Oh, and I'm on my way to believing,” and as the last word hung in the air he brushed his hand against Lestrade’s hair once more. And as he did so it was then that he realized he’d left his umbrella behind at the wedding reception. 

 

The iceman had melted. 

 

*

 

Lestrade woke up with a pounding head to find that it was morning, or at the very least he was in heaven because everything was incredibly light, and that he felt really warm. 

 

Then he sat up because he realized that he was in a large double bed with white sheets and a duvet that wasn't his. Where the hell was he? His gaze fell quickly to the empty side of the bed next to him. There was a slight dip in it as if someone else had slept there or at the very least been lying there and he felt a small knot of anxiety begin to form in his stomach at the sight. He didn't remember having sex with anyone but he had a feeling that he’d missed something important and having sex with someone definitely counted as something important in Lestrade’s mind. So swallowing he stumbled out of bed, noticed that he was bare footed and made his way across to the large, sunlit window. 

 

It overlooked a large driveway, in the middle of which was a small fountain and beyond the iron gate at the driveway’s end he could make out a road and beyond that clusters of green. What the hell? Lestrade wondered. Was he really at the hotel after all?

 

He turned around and noticed that there was a glass of water on the bedside table and an empty bowl. Well, at least he hadn't been sick he thought, before he ambled across and took a sip of the water gratefully. 

 

He found his shoes and socks at the foot of the bed and he slipped them on, tucked his cravat messily into his trouser pocket and then looked around for his jacket. But he couldn't find it anywhere. Instinctively he checked his pockets for his phone but it wasn't in any of them. It must have been in his jacket. He cursed and hoped it was still there. 

 

Then he took another sip of water for courage and placed the glass back on the bedside table, before he left the room. 

 

“Er…hello?” he tried to call, but his voice came out as more of a croak. 

 

So he hovered there uncertainly for a moment and then when no one came and he couldn't hear anything he began to explore. 

 

Nothing about what he saw told him where he was. Everything was posh, old-fashioned, crisp, clean and sparkling. There were no photos or pictures of family. He tried to think of a woman he knew who was like that. But he couldn't think of anyone. 

 

Eventually he came to some stairs and he went down them slowly as he looked around. Still no clue. He reached the bottom. He was standing in some sort of entrance hall and there were doors on either side. For a moment he wondered if he was in Hogwarts. Then his body instinctively took him to the left and when he reached one of the final doors on that side he hesitated because he thought he could hear something. So he pressed his ear close to the door and was slightly alarmed when he realized that the sound was someone as they panted. Then after a slight hesitation he pushed the door open and nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw Mycroft Holmes on a running machine. 

 

Mycroft noticed him almost immediately but he acted with a casual air of indifference as he slowed the machine down until it came to a stop. Then he wiped a quick hand over his brow as he stepped off it, grabbed a bottle of water that was on a table off to the side and took a quick swig of it, set it back down, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and fixed his eyes on Lestrade. Then, “Ah Gregory,” he said as if Lestrade interrupting his morning exercise was perfectly ordinary, “I must thank you for not being sick on my white sheets last night.”

 

Lestrade did not know when they’d got back to using each other’s first names but it kind of worried him. But still he couldn't think about that too much because he was still in shock about the fact that Mycroft Holmes was standing there in front of him wearing a red tracksuit. That Mycroft Holmes had just been working out. That…oh crap. He was in Mycroft’s house…he had been in his bed…oh shit.

 

Mycroft watched Lestrade’s eyes widen as the penny finally dropped and then with a small smile he said, “You must be hungry,” before he brushed past Lestrade and swept out of the room. 

 

“Um, yeah,” Lestrade answered dumbly, before he hurriedly turned around and trotted after Mycroft. 

 

Once they were in the kitchen, which was at the back of the house Lestrade asked as he waved his hands, “You live on your own here?” whilst he waited for Mycroft to make them both coffee and also, in Lestrade’s case two slices of toast with marmalade.

 

Mycroft looked at him momentarily, before he nodded and then got out a plate from one of the cupboards.

 

Lestrade considered that for a moment, before he realized that Mycroft was probably waiting for him to make some polite remark so he said, “It’s lovely.”

 

Mycroft’s movements faltered and he straightened up a little, before he looked to the side where Lestrade was, but not quite at Lestrade, as he remarked perceptively, “You don’t like it?” 

 

“Um, no, no I do,” Lestrade said hurriedly, before he trailed off, “It’s just…”

 

“Yes?” Mycroft asked him in a light tone enquiringly.

 

“Well,” Lestrade began and he looked off to the side now as if an answer might be floating there, before he looked back at Mycroft as he put his hands in his pockets and shrugged awkwardly, “It’s a house isn't it? Not a home.”

 

“Oh?” Mycroft replied, before he asked curiously, “What makes you say that?” 

 

“Well, it’s like a hotel or something or an old house that’s been preserved by the National Trust…” Lestrade tried to explain and as Mycroft didn't look at him he got the feeling that he was doing a rather bad job of it. 

 

Mycroft didn't say anything, he just looked thoughtful, and so Lestrade was very glad when everything was ready and they strolled into the dining room that was immediately to the left of the kitchen and sat down at the long dining table. Lestrade sat a little awkwardly at its head and Mycroft sat to his left and for a moment all that could be heard was the scraping of the knife across the toast and the clink of it as it hit the jar of marmalade as Mycroft prepared it for his guest. 

 

But Lestrade, who had been shifting uncomfortably in his chair and growing more and more awkward as he wondered what the hell had happened the previous night for him to end up in Mycroft’s bed, had to ask as Mycroft pushed the plate of toast carefully towards him, “Um…last night…what happened?”

 

“You don’t remember?” Mycroft enquired casually as he looked down, put the lid back on top of the jar and then gestured for Lestrade to eat. 

 

Lestrade swallowed, picked up the first slice of toast and bit into the corner of it, before he said with the side of his mouth as he looked across at Mycroft, “No.”

 

Mycroft could have told the whole truth. But he was rather worried about how strange it might sound in the light of day, so he settled on the simple, “You had gotten rather, um, intoxicated, shall we say. You weren't fit to be alone so I brought you back here.”

 

“Oh, um,” and now Lestrade looked down momentarily, before he looked back up at Mycroft as he remembered his manners and said, “Thank you then.”

 

“It was my pleasure,” Mycroft replied, his eyes on Lestrade.

 

Then Lestrade looked down again because there was something in Mycroft’s eyes that he couldn't work out, before more for something to break the silence than anything else he asked, “Um, I-I didn't do anything embarrassing did I?” whilst he ran an awkward hand through his hair and made it stick up every which way once more. 

 

Mycroft wanted to reach across and smooth it down, but he pressed one hand down against his leg with the other to stop himself, before he said instead, “You had your moments.”

 

Lestrade, now chewing his toast, blushed and then he looked hard at Mycroft.

 

“You asked me to dance with you in my living room,” Mycroft said as unabashedly as he could and Lestrade’s eyes nearly popped out of his head in horror, before he buried his head in his hands. 

 

“Christ,” Lestrade breathed, before he mumbled, “I'm really, really sorry,” as he forced himself to look back up at Mycroft. But to his surprise Mycroft wore a thin smile. 

 

Then he nearly had a heart attack as Mycroft said airily, “I wouldn't worry. As far as dance partners go I've had much worse.”

 

“What? You mean you actually…” Lestrade trailed off, leaving the question hanging between them. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded with a small smile, “And then I said that there wasn't any music to dance to and you told me to make some.” Lestrade cringed, before Mycroft went on, “So I, um, did,” and was Lestrade imagining it now or did the supposedly up himself Mycroft Holmes look embarrassed? 

 

Whatever the case though Lestrade was still sat there, not sure what to say, before he finally settled for asking rather awkwardly after he’d finished his toast and placed his hands on the table, “So what song did you sing?” 

 

Mycroft blinked once, before he replied, “ ‘The Only Exception.’”

 

“Oh…oh right,” Lestrade answered, running a hand through his hair now and trying to remember how that song went. He knew that it had been the first song Sherlock and John had danced to at their wedding, presumably that was why Mycroft had remembered it, but he had drunk a little by then and he wasn't one to pay much attention to lyrics so…

 

“I can”- Mycroft started, whilst at the same time Lestrade said, “Maybe I should”- and then they both looked at each other and blushed a little, before Lestrade waved a hand at Mycroft and said, “You go first.”

 

So, “I could take you home if you like,” Mycroft said. 

 

“Oh, um, no that’s all right I can get a cab. Um, you don’t know where my jacket is do you? Only I think my mobile’s inside one of the pockets,” Lestrade said.

 

“It’s in the living room,” Mycroft replied at once.

 

“Right, good,” Lestrade said awkwardly, before he looked down at the table momentarily because there was still one very important thing that hadn't been cleared up and he wasn't sure whether to ask, but it was important, so in the end he managed to look up at Mycroft as he stated gawkily, “Um, last night, I-I ended up in your bed…”whilst he gestured behind him with his thumb. 

 

Mycroft flushed for a moment, before he shifted in his seat and said, “Yes, before the song was done you said you were tired so I took you back to the settee. I was going to let you sleep there but when I went to get some water you started to go upstairs. So I was going to let you use one of the spare ones but you were on my bed, before I could stop you.”

 

Lestrade didn't know whether he’d ever been more embarrassed in his life, but still he had to prompt, “Right but”-

 

“I didn't molest you if that’s what you’re concerned about,” Mycroft said a bit stiffly. 

 

“No, no I didn't”- Lestrade began, worried he’d been rude but he stopped when Mycroft waved a hand at him. 

 

“It’s fine Gregory, really,” Mycroft said, before he added keenly, “I can call you Gregory, can’t I?” 

 

“Of course,” Lestrade nodded and Mycroft looked relieved, and then feeling as if it was time Lestrade stood and said awkwardly, “Well, thank you for the toast and coffee it was lovely…and for letting me stay over and everything.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft waved a hand as if it had all been nothing and hadn't taken a toll on him emotionally whatsoever, before he checked, “Are you sure you’ll be fine getting a cab?”

 

Lestrade nodded and then began to walk backwards out of the room, whilst he pondered how to say goodbye.

 

But then Mycroft said, “I’ll wait with you,” and so after they’d picked Lestrade’s jacket up, Lestrade phoned for a cab and then the two men stepped outside and began to walk down the driveway to wait. 

 

Then they stood just outside the gate and Lestrade kept looking down and then sideways at Mycroft as he didn't know whether he should say anything or not. Whilst Mycroft just stared straight ahead as if Lestrade wasn't really there when in reality his mind was very much aware that he was. 

 

Finally the cab came and broke their silence and Mycroft looked at Lestrade, whilst the latter said a quick, “Thanks again, bye then,” and Mycroft nodded and Lestrade disappeared inside the cab and then he was gone and suddenly Mycroft was on his own and it was…lonely. And not in a good way either. 

 

Then, before he had even moved, he got a call from his brother and as soon as he picked up Sherlock said, “Morning, brother dear. A curious thing happened. You left your umbrella at the reception. And John said he saw you helping Lestrade into a car. I hope you didn’t molest him.”

 

“I did not molest him,” Mycroft said half in a splutter, half angrily. 

 

Sherlock just laughed and Mycroft scowled, before Sherlock said, “Whatever. Come and pick it up whenever. Preferably soon though, now I come to think about it. Or I might get tempted and use it as a weapon.” Then a beat passed, before Sherlock said loudly, “See John, this is why we should have gone on honeymoon.”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and then he heard John say indignantly at the other end, “It was you who didn't want to go on honeymoon Sherlock! You said you’d miss London too much and that you had no desire to see so many fat men walking around in shorts anyway.”

 

Sherlock snorted in amusement. Then he said to Mycroft, “I have to go. I have a husband to argue with. Laters,” and Mycroft thought that it really sounded as if Sherlock relished saying the word, ‘husband,’ and for a moment he felt another pang of loneliness, before with a sigh he called his driver and then when he came and asked where they were headed Mycroft said, “221B, Baker Street.”

 

*

 

“I hope I'm not disturbing anything,” Mycroft said as he walked into the room to find Sherlock kissing John, whilst he sat on his lap. At least they were fully clothed, Mycroft supposed. 

 

Sherlock got up with a jolt, turned around and stared at Mycroft as if he was inspecting him for a moment, then he said coolly, “I take it things didn't go well with Lestrade then?” 

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mycroft said as he twirled his hand, for he hadn't yet reclaimed his umbrella, whilst he kept his eyes fixed on his brother, “Detective Inspector Lestrade was drunk, I was merely helping him.”

 

Sherlock snorted, before he remarked, “Merely helping him into your bed is more like it.”

 

Mycroft’s face soured at once and John nearly choked on thin air. 

 

Then Mycroft said with his face hard, “I’ll have my umbrella back now, if you please, I have rather a lot to do.”

 

“Ah yes,” Sherlock began and John inwardly groaned because he knew that wherever this was going it wasn't any place good, “Let’s have a look at your to-do list, shall we, brother dear? I believe today’s is made up of one thing.”

 

“Which is?” Mycroft asked as lightly as he could, whilst John hissed, “Sherlock,” warningly. 

 

But Sherlock merely waved a hand at his husband and said with a bit of a smirk, “That would be moping over Lestrade, moping over Lestrade and ah, yes, moping over Lestrade.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed dangerously and John put his head in his hand and almost prayed that this would be over soon. 

 

Sherlock meanwhile just smirked some more, before he walked across the room to fetch Mycroft’s umbrella and then came to a stop just in front of his brother. 

 

Mycroft put out a hand to take it but Sherlock merely twirled it around, before he commented with his eyes on Mycroft, “It must be bad for you to have forgotten your umbrella,” and John gritted his teeth in pain. 

 

A muscle twitched in Mycroft’s face but he didn't say anything. 

 

So Sherlock, because he just didn't know when to stop, said leisurely, “I don’t know why you don’t just tell him.”

 

“Tell him what?” Mycroft asked as evenly as he could. 

 

“That you love him,” Sherlock replied and John froze in his chair and didn't dare to look at Mycroft’s face like Sherlock was now doing. And Sherlock wasn't just looking either, he was observing. Enough to know by the slight twist of something that crossed his brother’s eyes that, “Ah, you told him last night but he doesn't remember.”

 

“I’ll have my umbrella back now, thank you,” Mycroft said stiffly and Sherlock handed it to him without another word. With his umbrella back safe in his hand Mycroft felt a brief burst of comfort fill him, but he didn't feel comfortable enough to stay so he said, “I’ll be off, then,” and he turned but before he could leave Sherlock called after him, “Watch out for the broken heart,” and Mycroft turned his head back slightly, before he inclined it and departed. 

 

Once he’d left Sherlock said firmly, “I think they need a me intervention.”

 

John looked up and said, “I'm surprised you want to get them together. I thought it would be too disgusting for you to see your brother with someone.”

 

Sherlock smiled a little now in spite of himself, then he said, “Oh it definitely disgusts me,” and John snorted, “But as long as they keep…everything away from me…I’d rather it if it would stop him moping around so much.”

 

And John smiled at this show of care, before seeing his opportunity Sherlock slid back onto John’s lap and kissed him again. 

 

*

 

It was a few days later and Lestrade was on his way back to the police car after he’d finished at a crime scene when it happened. When Sherlock grabbed the sleeve of his coat and forced Lestrade to turn around and look at him. 

 

“Yes?” Lestrade asked, a little more snappily than he’d wanted to because he was tired and desperately in need of a coffee to keep him going. 

 

“Have you seen my brother since your little sleepover?” Sherlock asked as casually as he could. 

 

And Lestrade felt both irked and slightly worried in spite of himself, before he replied, “No, has something”-

 

“No, but,” Sherlock began, before he hesitated and looked slightly desperately into Lestrade’s eyes as he asked, “That night, what did he tell you had happened?” 

 

Lestrade didn't want to tell him but there was something in Sherlock’s eyes that made the whole thing spill out of his mouth anyway. “He said he took me back to his because I was too drunk to be alone and then I asked him to sing and dance with me and he…he did.”

 

For a moment Sherlock’s face, naturally because this was Mycroft they were talking about after all, wore a look of revulsion, before he asked a little breathlessly, “What song was it, do you know?”

 

“Um,” and now Lestrade chewed on his lip for a moment as he tried to remember the title, then he recalled, “ ‘The Only Exception.’”

 

Sherlock thought for a moment and then he mumbled, “Figures,” to himself, before he made to turn away. 

 

But Lestrade grabbed at his sleeve and said when Sherlock looked at him, “Why?”   
And when Sherlock continued to look at him he added, “You said, ‘figures,’ why? Why does that make sense?”

 

And now Sherlock looked at him in a concentrated fashion, before he asked unblinkingly, “Haven’t you ever wondered why my brother seems lighter in your presence? Figuratively speaking of course,” and Lestrade snorted at this, before Sherlock went on, “Haven’t you ever wondered why he smiles more when he’s around you, _genuinely_ smiles and shows you videos on his phone?” and Lestrade didn't ask how, as usual, Sherlock seemed to know things no one had told him. “Haven’t you ever wondered why he tries to take his time to spend time with you when with most other people he’s in a rush? Have you really not realized that my brother would not usually help drunken people out, whether he knew them or not? That usually he would look down at them and frown, but with you he actually took you back to his home and risked you throwing up everywhere, before he danced and sang to you. Why do you think he did all that?” 

 

And Lestrade’s mouth, which was hanging slightly open by now, merely managed to get out, “I-I.”

 

“It’s because _you_ are the only exception,” Sherlock told him, as he urgently tried to make him see the truth so that he would stop being so bloody dense. 

 

Lestrade just stood there with his mouth still open, whilst his arms still hung by his sides and his eyes goggled at Sherlock in disbelief. 

 

And then as he saw that his message was finally starting to hit home Sherlock smiled a little, turned and walked away singing, “He loves you yeah, yeah, yeah,” quietly to himself. 

 

*

 

It was a surprise to say the least for Mycroft Holmes to open his door that night and see Lestrade standing there. “Gregory, I”- he began but he broke off at the look on Lestrade’s face. 

 

“Can I come in?” Lestrade asked, as he panted a little. 

 

“Of course,” Mycroft said politely, before he held the door open a little wider, though in his head he wondered what this was all about. Then, “Would you like a drink?” he asked when they were stood in the entrance hall. 

 

Lestrade considered this for a moment, then, “Yes please,” he said, before he added, “If that’s all right.”

 

Mycroft nodded and escorted Lestrade into the same living room that they had danced in, before he went over to the drinks cabinet and poured them a glass each. Then once Lestrade was sat on the settee, his drink in one hand and Mycroft was sat opposite him, his drink on the small table by his armchair, he asked cordially, “What can I help you with?”

 

Lestrade looked down and hesitated for a moment, before he looked back up at Mycroft and said, “I looked up the lyrics…to-to the song you sang me, you know, when…”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft prompted. 

 

“And, well, I guess what I was wondering was, did you mean them?” Lestrade fumbled out and he chose to look not quite at Mycroft as he waited for his answer. 

 

Mycroft hesitated for a moment. He wanted to say, ‘yes,’ straight away he really did…but his old insecurities and niggles came back to him, before he remembered how nice it had been to have Lestrade there in his home, even if he had been drunk, and the loneliness that he’d felt when Lestrade had gone. So he said, “Yes,” carefully and monitored Lestrade’s expression closely for a reaction. What he saw surprised him-relief and perhaps a bit of embarrassment. Embarrassment that Mycroft felt that way towards him or-

 

“The lyrics, they…in one part they mentioned about how the person has always been that way, how they feel comfortable by not getting too close, so I guess”-

 

“You were wondering how I became like that,” Mycroft filled in and Lestrade bit his lip and nodded once quickly, before he said, “But you don’t have to tell me, I mean it’s none of my business or anything.” But when Mycroft next spoke it was as if he hadn't heard him and perhaps he hadn't for, “There was this boy when I was at secondary school,” Mycroft began and Lestrade’s hands twisted together, “I suppose you could say that I’d noticed him. And for a while I thought he’d noticed me. He seemed…attentive. He spoke to me outside and inside class, we sometimes studied together in the library. We were both quite academic, perhaps me a little more than him, though he was into sports more than I was. And I guess you could say I fell in love with him. My heart, you have to understand, was more vulnerable then, I was more naïve, more gullible. Enough to foolishly think that I had a chance with him. But when it all came out, as these things do, it turned out it had all been a bit of fun for him. He had merely pretended to love me. Merely done everything he could think of to get me to fall for him and make a fool of myself. It had been a prank concocted by some of the other boys in our year, with him right at its centre. Since then I've never felt safe enough to share my heart with another.”

 

“Christ, I'm sorry Mycroft,” Lestrade said finally when he could think of nothing better to say. 

 

Mycroft nodded, took a swig of his drink and then replaced his glass on the table. 

 

In that time a new question had come to Lestrade, one that made him feel uncomfortable to ask, but he had to, so, “Why me?” 

 

Mycroft considered him and his question for a moment, then, “Why not?” he ventured, “You have always been quite kind to me on the whole and especially to Sherlock…not many officers,” he started, before he corrected himself, “Not many people would have done what you have for my brother.” 

 

Lestrade smiled a bit, because Mycroft’s words were making him feel good about himself, and perhaps brave enough to stand. 

 

Mycroft’s expression changed to one of slight alarm and, “Do you have to go?” he asked. 

 

Lestrade shook his head and screwed up his courage, before, “No, but I’d like to do something if you’d let me.”

 

Mycroft hesitated for a moment. The question was one of trust clearly. Did he trust Lestrade? He did, he concluded quite easily, so he nodded. 

 

Lestrade swallowed then and he went across until he was almost stood over Mycroft, bent down and lifted Mycroft’s chin slightly with one careful hand, before he kissed him tenderly. 

 

For a moment Mycroft froze and then he reciprocated, his hands moving to hold Lestrade steady. 

 

For a brief moment they parted, Lestrade checking with Mycroft to see if what he’d just done was all right and then when Mycroft’s eyes told him that it was they kissed again until Lestrade’s phone rang from inside his pocket and he pulled away reluctantly. 

 

“Sorry,” Lestrade muttered regretfully, before he pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked it. 

 

“It’s fine,” Mycroft replied, and he reached up to brush the few strands of silver hair that had fallen over Lestrade’s forehead when they’d kissed back into place and the action caused Lestrade to smile, before he answered his phone. 

 

“Bugger,” he remarked when he came off the phone and slid it back into his pocket. 

 

“Trouble at the Yard?” Mycroft enquired. 

 

“Murder,” Lestrade replied, and he already looked worn and tired at the very thought, before he said apologetically, “I'm sorry.”

 

Mycroft shrugged a little as if he didn't care but inside his heart still pounded from their kiss and his mind asked him if this meant he and Lestrade were going out now or-

 

Lestrade pecked him on the cheek and then pulled away, still looking at him, still not wanting to go. 

 

“You’ll call?” Mycroft had to ask as he stood. 

 

“Definitely,” Lestrade nodded. 

 

“Perhaps we could have dinner some time?” Mycroft suggested. 

 

“I’d like that Mycroft,” Lestrade replied genuinely and Mycroft’s heart soared for a moment, before he said, “My.”

 

“Huh?” Lestrade breathed with his eyebrows raised. 

 

“I like it when you call me My,” Mycroft said, and he hardly believed that he was saying such a thing when it sounded so…cheesy…but this was Gregory, so…

 

“In that case,” Lestrade said, whilst he took Mycroft’s hands in his, “I’d like that very much My,” and Mycroft smiled.

 

Then at Lestrade’s obvious reluctance to leave Mycroft urged him softly, “Go.” 

 

“All right,” Lestrade said a little wearily as he let go of Mycroft’s hands and then after a brief kiss he was gone and Mycroft was on his own once more, but this time he didn't feel so alone.


	9. Don't Dream It's Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Sherlock and John face another goodbye? And will Mycroft and Gregory's relationship survive the damage that's caused by Sherlock? Read on to find out more. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, the songs in this chapter are-  
> Rehab [Amy Winehouse]  
> Beneath your Beautiful [Labrinth ft Emeli Sande]  
> Don't Dream it's Over [Crowded House.]

“Oh, hey John,” Sherlock said and John turned his head so fast that it hurt. 

 

Of course the words wouldn't have made him do such a thing if they had been in 221B or even at a crime scene. As it was John hadn't exactly expected to see Sherlock in a crack house. 

 

It was Mary's fault really. She'd called him a little anxiously saying that she thought her neighbour's missing son might be there in the crack house and could he possibly go have a look? And John had said that yeah, sure he would because after all that Mary had done-taking their break-up so well and being their best woman at the wedding-he kind of felt that he owed her. And heck even if he hadn't felt like that he would have gone anyway because it was Mary and he still cared for her. 

 

So there he'd been, upstairs in the crack house, whilst he crouched over the no longer missing son who just happened to be lying next to Sherlock. 

 

And suddenly John was mad. So, “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. 

 

“Getting some stress relief for living with you,” Sherlock joked but John wasn't smiling and he pulled Sherlock to his feet, ignored his husband's mumbled protests and cried, “Look at you you're filthy.”

 

Sherlock looked at himself. He was wearing a dark navy hoodie and his hair was hanging string-like, flat and greasy against his head. He thought that actually he looked the part and he couldn't see why John was complaining but, before he could say anything John had let go of him and had turned his attention to the neighbour's son once more. 

 

“He's fine,” Sherlock said, whilst he waved a hand at him but when John glared at him he fell silent and made to leave the room with John now following. “Before you say anything I was working”-

 

“Working? So that's what you call it now? Do you realise that I've been wondering where the hell you'd got to? I get home from the surgery every day and you're not there. I call you and you don't pick up, I”-

 

“Will you shut up?” Sherlock demanded, as he turned around halfway down the stairs to look at John angrily, before his face softened slightly at the pained look on his husband’s face and when he said, “I was undercover, all right” it was in a slightly softer tone. 

 

“Well you don't have to take your role so damn seriously,” John hissed back at him, before he said in a disappointed kind of tone, “I'm supposed to be your husband. You're supposed to tell me stuff.”

 

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock began, before he started to walk backwards down the rest of the stairs, whilst his hand scraped against the banister and John narrowed his eyes. “But really John you have to understand that this case”-

 

“Save it,” John interrupted him as they finally reached the bottom of the stairs, “I'm taking you to St. Barts. You need a drug test”-

 

“I don't need a drug test,” Sherlock scowled as John grabbed his arm roughly and managed to pull him outside, before Sherlock wriggled expertly out of his grasp. 

 

“Drug test or no case,” John said firmly and reluctantly Sherlock followed him as he strode off to find a taxi. 

 

*

 

When John saw Molly slap Sherlock three times as she told him, “Don't you ever abuse your beautiful body like that again!” he kind of wished that was what he'd done. 

 

But he hadn't been idle and when he and Sherlock got back to 221B and found Mycroft as he sat inside on the stairs, his suit slightly crumpled and his expression anxious, Sherlock whined indignantly, “You called him?” like a small child whose Headmaster had called his parents.

 

“Yes I did, because you don't seem to understand how serious this is, Sherlock,” John told him with frustration in his tone. 

 

“John's right,” Mycroft began, standing now and drawing himself up, his umbrella as usual in one hand, “Which is why I've arranged for you”-

 

“Oh, no, no, no,” Sherlock interrupted all diva-like as if Mycroft's words were simply too much for him and then he sang, “You're trying to make me go to rehab but I say, ‘No, no, no.’ Yes I've been away but now I'm back you know, know, know. I 'ain't got the time and if my mummy thinks I'm fine. She's tried to make me go to rehab; I won't go, go, go. I'd rather be at home with John. I ain't got seventy days. 'Cause there's nothing, there's nothing you can't teach me that I can't learn from Dr. Wat-son.” And then with a glare at Mycroft, Sherlock darted around him like a dancer and swept upstairs. John and Mycroft followed him quickly and when Sherlock entered the room to find Anderson and another person there on a drugs bust Sherlock cried out in frustration as he waved his hands, “I was on a case!”

 

“What case?” Mycroft asked him immediately and Sherlock turned around to slowly face him. 

 

Then the consulting detective replied stubbornly, “An important one.”

 

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, before he began in a dangerous tone, “If it's what I think it could be then I must warn you”-

 

“I'm not giving up the case. Magnussen”-

 

And now Mycroft turned swiftly to the two people that were in the kitchen and got their attention, before he said smoothly, “That name you just heard, you didn't hear it, and if I ever hear that you've said otherwise then you will have a job no longer. Do you understand?” Very steadily both nodded. So, “Good,” Mycroft breathed, before he uttered, “Now leave.” And after a brief hesitation they did and Mycroft turned back to Sherlock, whilst John looked in between them.

 

But John wasn't going to stay silent. And he asked now that the room was vacant aside from the three of them, “Magnussen? Isn't he that newspaper owner”-

 

“Yes and he's also a blackmailer”- Sherlock began, but Mycroft interrupted him.

 

“Which you have no proof of and you never will have because you won't be taking this case”- 

 

“It's too late. I've already arranged a meeting with him”- Sherlock interrupted.

 

“Perhaps I'm not making myself clear. If you take this case then you won't only be going up against him. You'll be going up against me,” Mycroft told his brother with a cool kind of fierceness. 

 

“Oh, what a shame that would be. Now if you don't mind I'd like you to leave, I'm really rather busy,” Sherlock replied mockingly as he casually stepped around his brother to show him the door. 

 

But when Mycroft didn't move and said only, “Sherlock...” in a tone that was weary and said, _‘I have had enough now of such childish arguing,’_ Sherlock violently shoved him so that Mycroft's front was pinned against the wall, before he twisted his brother's arms back as he muttered, “Don't push me when I'm high,” and then finally let go of him. 

 

Mycroft stayed there for a moment in shock, before he turned and brushed down his suit, seemingly ruffled, and then his eyes, with something pleading in them, fixed back on Sherlock. 

 

And then Sherlock played his trump card. He pulled out a folded piece of A4 paper from his pocket and handed it silently to Mycroft. 

 

Mycroft took it and still looked at Sherlock for a moment, before he turned his attention to the paper in his hands and then unfolded it almost warily. 

 

John watched as a flash of something rippled across Mycroft's eyes in waves, before he folded the paper back up again quickly, in a messy fashion and John was both surprised and a little alarmed to see that Mycroft's hands were trembling. Then Mycroft pushed the paper into his pocket as if he was burying it deep inside himself, before he looked back at Sherlock and John saw that his eyes didn't hold anything vulnerable any more. Instead they held a kind of cold fury inside them as he waited for an explanation. 

 

“You haven't seen that, before?” Sherlock asked. “On one of your cameras?”

 

“What do you think?” Mycroft retorted coolly, though John could tell that his voice was close to shaking. 

 

“Then I think you should leave because you clearly have some talking that you need to do,” Sherlock told him and after Mycroft bent to pick up his umbrella, which he'd dropped when Sherlock had shoved him he left. 

 

“Christ, Sherlock,” John said as soon as Mycroft had gone, “I know he irritates you and everything but that was a bit...what did you give him anyway?”

 

But all Sherlock said was, “If we want to make our little appointment with Magnussen then I need to get changed.” And before John could say anything he’d disappeared into their bedroom. 

 

John couldn't even say anything when Sherlock swept out in a black suit and white shirt either because they could hear a slight kafuffle from downstairs, before in the next moment two guards were in the room. 

 

They searched Sherlock and then John and then when Magnussen finally entered the room Sherlock said in a cool tone questioningly, “I understood we were meeting at your office?”

 

“This is my office,” Magnussen replied, before his eyes swept across John and read that John was an Afghanistan veteran and has a normal porn preference, is 10% in debt and has an unimportant status. Then he waved a hand and said as he picked up some papers from the desk, “Well, it is now.”

 

“Mr Magnussen?” Sherlock began a little cautiously but firmly at the same time as Magnussen sat down, “I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on the matter of her husband’s letters.” But Magnussen’s attention was still fixed on the papers that he’d picked up so Sherlock went on, “Some time ago you”- and now Magnussen, to Sherlock’s pleasure, looked up-“Put pressure on her concerning these letters. She would like these letters back. Obviously”- and now Magnussen read that Sherlock was a consulting detective, also with a normal porn preference, that his finances were unknown, that his brother was Mycroft Holmes, who works for M.I.6 and that Sherlock was officially recorded as deceased between the years of 2011 and 2013-“The letters have no longer practical use to you. So with that in mind”- and now Magnussen read that Sherlock’s pressure points consisted of Jim Moriarty, Redbeard, hounds of the Baskerville, opium, John Watson and Irene Adler. Magnussen couldn't help it. He let out a snort, which Sherlock immediately took offence to as he commented, “Something I said?” 

 

“No, no, I was reading,” Magnussen explained, before he adjusted his glasses and then went on, “There’s rather a lot. Redbeard?” And as John looked across at Sherlock quickly he noticed that something flickered in Sherlock’s eyes, before he turned his attention back to Magnussen as the man said, “Sorry, sorry, you were probably talking?” 

 

“I”-Sherlock managed, before he cleared his throat and went on, “Was trying to explain that by having asked to act on”-

 

But, “Bathroom?” Magnussen blurted out suddenly. 

 

And one of the guards said gruffly, “Along from the kitchen, Sir.”

 

“Okay,” Magnussen replied. 

 

And Sherlock tried yet again, “I have been asked to negotiate the return of these letters”-and now Magnussen took off his glasses, wiped them and then put them back on again-“I'm aware that you do not make copies of sensitive documents?”

 

“Like the rest of the flat?” Magnussen asked now as he ignored Sherlock once more. Then when there was no response from either of the guards he added a little impatiently, “The bathroom?”

 

“Yes Sir,” one of the guards clarified. 

 

And, “Maybe not then,” Magnussen decided, before he looked around once more. 

 

Sherlock meanwhile tried to keep to his line of speech and so he asked, “Am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?” 

 

Magnussen appeared to think on this for a moment, before he declared, “Lady Elizabeth Smallwood? I like her,” and he made a kind of kissing noise now.

 

So Sherlock tried again, “Mr. Magnussen, am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?” and he pronounced each word very clearly. 

 

But, “She’s English with a spine,” Magnussen told them, before he pushed the coffee table further away from him with his foot, stood up and strolled towards them, “Best thing about the English, so domesticated,” he said, whilst he looked from Sherlock to John. And John hated the way that the man’s eyes lingered on him. “All standing around apologizing,” Magnussen went on, “Keeping your little heads down,” and now he went to the fireplace and unzipped his trousers. Then, “You can do what you like here, no one’s ever going to stop you,” he continued, before, much to John’s horror and disbelief, he began to urinate. “A nation of herbivores,” Magnussen announced as if his behaviour was perfectly normal, then, “I've interests all over the world, but, yeah, everything starts in England,” and now he finished and zipped his trousers back up as he told them, “If it works here, I’ll try it in a real country,” before he turned back, took a handkerchief from one of the guards and began to wipe his hands on it as he stopped in front of them. “United Kingdom, petri-dish to the western world.” Then, “Tell Lady Elizabeth,” he said, his eyes still focused on his hands, “I might need those letters. I'm keeping them,” before he dropped the handkerchief to the floor, said, “But anyway they’re funny,” as he showed them the tip of an envelope from the inside of his jacket and then he and the guards both left. 

 

John was still in disbelief about what had just happened. So he stepped forward with his fists clenched, uttered, “Jesus,” and then half-turned to look at the fireplace. 

 

Sherlock though just said, “Did you notice the one extraordinary thing he did?” 

 

And John looked at him, still angry and exasperated and so much more, before he managed to control himself enough to just get out, “There was a moment that kind of stuck in the mind yeah.”

 

“Exactly,” and Sherlock raised a finger now, “Because he showed us the letters,” and then he walked across the room and turned to John. 

 

“Okay,” John managed, a bit calmer now but still having trouble trying to suppress everything. 

 

“He’s brought the letters to London so no matter what he says he’s ready to do a deal. Now Magnussen only does a deal once he’s established a person’s weakness,” Sherlock said, before he went across to get his coat and shrugged it on as he looked at John, “The pressure point he calls it. So, clearly he believes I’m a drug addict. And no serious threat,” and now he glanced out of the window and watched as one of the guards closed the door of a black car, before he turned away and gestured with his hands, “And of course because he’s in town tonight the letters will be in his safe, in his office, whilst he’s out with a group from 7-10.”

 

“How do you know his schedule?” John asked, torn between feeling exasperated again and impressed. 

 

“Because I do,” Sherlock replied, before, “Now I have to go out, but I’ll see you tonight.”

 

“What’s tonight?” John called after Sherlock as the man left the room and began his way downstairs. 

 

“I’ll explain later,” Sherlock called back and that was that.

 

*

 

John sometimes wished that he could win more arguments against Sherlock, namely the argument that would prevent them from being so ridiculously stupid as to break into Magnussen's apartment.

 

“That door is locked, how are we even going to get inside it? It looks like it needs a card to open it and”-

 

“Relax,” Sherlock told John firmly to halt John's hissing goose impersonation as they stopped and looked down to where the lift door that led to Magnussen's apartment was. Then, “What do you think will happen if we were to just go up and try and open that door now, with the wrong card?” he asked. 

 

“We'd be taken the hell out of here,” John replied a little tentatively as he wondered where Sherlock was going with this. 

 

“Exactly,” Sherlock breathed, before, “But what about if we have a card that would usually work in this building, but not at the door we want, but it now doesn't because it's been rubbing against things in my pocket?”

 

John supposed that might be different, but he still shrugged, “We'd still have to get past whoever checks who we are.”

 

But Sherlock grinned, “I've got that covered,” and then he walked to the door and John followed him quickly and was just about to ask him what the hell he meant when the face of a woman appeared in the small screen that was by the door. 

 

And John did a kind of double take because he recognised the woman but he just couldn't think of where from. Then he recalled that she was one of Mary's friends, though he didn't remember her name. They’d gone on a double date once. John with Mary and this woman with some bloke she’d met on-line or something. That had happened before Sherlock had come back. 

 

“Yes?” she asked them. 

 

And Sherlock peered into the screen and looked rather affronted as he said, “Don't you know who I am?”

 

“No,” she replied, though she looked rather curious now. 

 

Sherlock sniffed a little, no doubt pretending that he had a cold or something, John thought, and then the consulting detective said, “I'm the one who introduced you to Lestrade, don't you remember?”

 

And John almost choked at the words, whilst the woman smiled at the memory, before she brushed a hand through her dark hair and teased, “I still can't let you in.”

 

“I know, but actually, its, well, we've got some rather upsetting news that I thought you should know.” It was remarkable, John thought, what Sherlock could do with a bit of fake tears and an upset voice, for the woman's face became concerned almost immediately. “Lestrade, he, he was in work today and he...there was an armed burglary and...he-he got shot.”

 

She opened the door so that they could tell her more details and Sherlock looked pleased as he hurried inside the lift with John at his heels. 

 

Though he looked a little less pleased when John looked up at him as they stood side by side and asked, “What did you mean when you said that you were the one to introduce her to Lestrade?” Sherlock shifted now because he knew that John wouldn't like the answer but before he could say anything John worked it out for himself and said, “Jesus, that was what you gave to Mycroft wasn't it? A compromising picture of Lestrade with...with...”

 

“Oh, they were only sitting close together at a bar, laughing or something”-

 

“That's hardly the point!” John exclaimed, before he said in a slightly lower voice as the lift got closer to the top, “Shit. He's your brother's boyfriend, Sherlock, you should hardly be introducing him to other people!” 

 

“If she hadn't known that we’d got married then I would have done it myself,” Sherlock complained. 

 

“Oh great,” John said as he folded his arms, “So I suppose I should be grateful should I?”

 

And when Sherlock just grimaced John switched the topic back to Mycroft and Lestrade and said, “I thought you wanted them to get together, anyway?”

 

“I changed my mind,” Sherlock said abruptly. 

 

And John said with disgust and slight outrage in his tone, “Oh, I know what this is,” and Sherlock looked at him, “This is you not being able to stand the fact that your brother is actually, properly happy for once and that it doesn't have anything to do with you. This is you not being able to stand that Mycroft might actually be caring for, and loving someone, who isn't you for a change.”

 

The lift got to the top and opened, before either of them could say another word and John felt thankful that it had because he didn't want to be that close to Sherlock any more with that tension hanging in the air between them. 

 

But then he saw her, Janine, he remembered her name now and she was there on the floor. He went instantly to her side and as soon as he saw that she'd been shot his medical training kicked in and he began to talk to her gently, even though she wasn't conscious, as he began to assist her. 

 

Sherlock looked at them for a moment, before he went to the stairs and to the next floor. 

 

And as soon as he saw Magnussen tied up in a chair with a gun being held to his head by someone in black that had their back turned to Sherlock, the careful side of Sherlock kicked in, as it did in any moments that he couldn't control. And so he walked in there cautiously, before he said, “I really wouldn't do that you know.”

 

He expected the woman, as she slowly turned towards him, to reveal herself as being the senior member of government who had given him the case to begin with. Perhaps she had been worried about a cover-up, about there being no action taken, and as such had taken her own. That was what made sense in his mind. So nothing made any sense to him when it wasn't her but the woman who had very nearly become Mary Watson instead. 

 

“Mary...” he uttered, as his mind already tried to work out why, but then she pointed the gun towards him instead and he found himself saying, “You wouldn't shoot me,” for surely the woman who had taken such good care of John wouldn't shoot him. It would make John unhappy, it would-

 

But then he was distracted, as one might be, when someone who is pointing a gun at you pulls the trigger back and then-then the man, who had once confessed to not having a heart, suddenly became very aware of the fact that he did have such a thing as the bullet lodged in his chest.

 

And he saw Anderson and Molly as they advised him on where the bullet was and what that meant and how he should fall and then he saw Mycroft, Mycroft who was probably hurting right now and it was all because of him...all his fault...and then he saw Redbeard, the dog he'd loved as a child, the dog who had been put down just like it felt he now was, and Mary...Mary telling him not to...not to tell John and then he was running or was he? And God, Moriarty was there too in chains, and he was trying to hold on, to stay awake, to fight against everything and Moriarty was telling him that he was going to die but...John. John didn't know about Mary, he realised. He didn't know and though he wasn't with her any more Sherlock knew that he would want to know...so he fought harder until, until-

 

“Sherlock! Oh, Christ, oh, hold on Sherlock...stay awake,” John's voice came from above him somewhere and Sherlock smiled a little. It was a smile similar to one that he might have given had he been lying in a warm bed and just awoken from a nice dream. And he smiled it now because he knew that he was safe so he let the blackness take him. 

 

*

Mycroft Holmes was having a very poor day to say the least. His day had gone downhill from the very moment that he’d seen that blasted photograph and it was such a thing that made him exceptionally grateful that he had his own private office and did not have to put up with people’s stares. For he’d been getting the photograph out of his jacket pocket every few minutes or so, staring at it and then replacing it with a sigh. Every time he took it out he half-expected to see that it showed something different or that it wasn't as bad as he'd first perceived. But it was, at least in his mind; it had interrupted his work all day and he could not think or concentrate. And now he got it out again, unfolded it, pressed out all its deep creases with his hand and stared hard at it, as if it finally might provide him with an answer this time. But of course it didn't. 

He remembered now how he had felt leaving 221B, like there was something pressing tight on his chest and like everyone was staring at him as he sent his driver off to go around the block a few times and then walked off down the street for some air, his umbrella tight in his hand. He hadn't been able to face going back to work right away and he had wished that it had been raining so he could put his umbrella up and cover his face more. Instead he had just kept his head unusually low whilst he thought about Lestrade...Lestrade...Lestrade. And as he'd done so it had felt like it had all happened again. Only this time it felt worse. When that boy had done what he'd done at school it had been bad. But this time Mycroft had only let himself be vulnerable for one prolonged moment, not several, and look what had happened. Gregory Lestrade, the man he could barely believe had been his boyfriend for a whole month, had betrayed him. 

 

Mycroft came out of his thought, his eyes locked on the photo once more. Locked on the image of Gregory with his eyes lit up, his body turned in towards the woman so that his elbow was brushing against her arm and the laugh on his face. And it hurt. God, Mycroft hadn't ever thought he'd allow himself to feel that kind of pain but he had. He'd been stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid as Sherlock might say, to even consider that after a few kisses and dates Gregory Lestrade, of all people, was his. Stupid to make himself so vulnerable. Caring is not an advantage, he reminded himself. It had always been him and Sherlock and he'd been stupid to try and change that. To think that he could have something more...to think that maybe he deserved something more to come home to at night than an empty mansion. And as he came to this thought he clawed at the paper with his hand, scrunched it up and then tossed it in the bin that was off to the side behind him. Then he changed his mind, got up, took it out of the bin, unfolded it and put it through his shredding machine instead. The machine was usually reserved for destroying secret, official government documents and the like but today Mycroft didn't much care about breaking the rules. And he almost laughed at himself. He, Mycroft Holmes was breaking the rules that he'd always cherished. Look what Gregory had reduced him to! But at the same time he knew very well that he couldn't take the risk of someone gaining access to his office, rifling through his bin and seeing that. Seeing how vulnerable he really was and as the paper-now transformed into thin strips-came out the other end of the machine he felt a kind of savage relief. For it was gone. It was over. And if he could just get the memories of that damn Lestrade out of his system then perhaps he could really manage to seal his heart off forever. Off from everything but Sherlock and his parents anyway. 

 

But as he sat down back behind his desk, his hair ruffled, the shirt he wore creased, his tie loose and his jacket over the back of his chair, his mind didn't seem to want it to be over and so his mind turned naturally to the phone call that he’d received from Lestrade just after lunch time. 

 

As soon as Mycroft had seen that it was Lestrade his heart had shifted uncomfortably in his chest, his mouth had started to feel dry and his hands hot as they fumbled to pick up the phone. Then, “Hello?” he’d began cautiously when he’d answered it. 

 

“My?” Lestrade had said as if he couldn't believe it, for, “I've been trying to get in touch with you.”

 

“Ah, I've been quite busy,” Mycroft had said in what wasn't exactly an apology as his free hand nervously fiddled and straightened some of the papers on his desk. 

 

“Right,” Lestrade had replied and Mycroft had been able to tell by his tone that he didn't quite believe him. Then, “Well, I just called to ask if you want to go out. Tonight. I should be able to get off at”-

 

“I'm afraid I’ll have to decline,” Mycroft had interrupted him, carefully making sure that he didn't use Lestrade’s first name, or any name actually, for then he could almost pretend that he was simply brushing off some government minister.

 

“Right, well some other time then?” Lestrade had asked hopefully. 

 

And Mycroft’s heart had felt as if it was being squeezed painfully tight in his chest as he’d replied, “Perhaps,” and that had been that. They had concluded the conversation swiftly and by the time they’d got off the phone Lestrade had known that Mycroft was avoiding him and Mycroft had known that he’d known. 

 

And now, as the memory faded, Anthea entered the room without barely knocking and Mycroft was about to snap at her or something because it was that kind of day but something about her expression made him stand instead and wonder what else was about to make that day bad. 

 

Then, “Sir, it’s your brother,” she uttered and Mycroft’s heart turned to ice. 

 

*

He’d sprung into action immediately and if it had done anything good for him it had at the very least gotten his mind as far removed from Lestrade as possible. 

 

But there was only so much action he could take regarding Sherlock and once his brother had been taken to a private room and he’d peered in and both pointedly ignored how pale and vulnerable Sherlock looked and John who asked him if he was all right there had been little use in him remaining there.

 

So he’d made to leave the hospital, but he’d only just stepped outside into the cool air, before he stopped, changed his mind and took out a cigarette. He didn't smoke often. He’d found that it didn't particularly agree with him but on rough days he always wanted one and today had definitely been a rough day. 

 

So he stood there, his body half-slumped against the wall behind him and his eyes pointedly ignoring any slight looks of disgust that he got. Most notably when a patient was pulled off an ambulance on a stretcher and dragged hurriedly past him inside the hospital. The look had been from one of the paramedics that time. 

 

And he’d just crushed the remnants of the cigarette with his heel when a voice said breathily, “Oh God My,” and Mycroft’s head jerked up to see Lestrade stood there. 

 

Lestrade never looked as smart as Mycroft, but this time he looked particularly wild. His hair at the front stuck up, his eyes were slightly frantic, his jacket was completely undone, the collar of his white shirt stuck up around his neck and his shirt was half untucked from his trousers. 

 

Mycroft wondered vaguely if Lestrade had been about to finish at work and perhaps started to change into something more comfortable to go to the pub in, before he’d heard, but on the whole he didn't particularly feel like deducing then. So he just said, “Sherlock’s unconscious but they think he should be fine,” wearily, whilst at the same time he considered whether he wanted a second cigarette or not. In the end, with Lestrade’s eyes on him, he decided not to. 

 

“That’s good,” Lestrade breathed, though his eyes were still worried, “But what about you?” 

 

And Mycroft felt confused then. For what did Lestrade mean? He hadn't been shot. But, before he could figure it all out Lestrade was hugging him. It only lasted for a moment because Mycroft’s whole body tensed up and Lestrade let go instinctively. Part of Mycroft wished that he hadn't. He’d just been surprised that’s all. But then the image of the photograph burned into his mind and he looked down. 

 

They could avoid the issue no longer. And though Lestrade didn't want to particularly bring it up right then, what with Sherlock just having been shot and all, he had to know why Mycroft was suddenly acting so weird around him. So he asked, “What’s going on?” quietly. 

 

Mycroft looked up at him. Then some of his usual coldness returned to him as he said, “Perhaps you should tell me Lestrade,” and when Lestrade, not Gregory, not any more, simply looked at him, his eyes flickering slightly at being called by his surname he said, “I saw a photograph of you and a woman in a bar.”

 

Lestrade’s brow furrowed, before it came back to him and he cursed, before, “That was because of your brother,” he began, and then he hesitated because he felt bad practically saying that it was all Sherlock’s fault when they didn't really know for sure whether Sherlock would be okay or not. 

 

“My brother?” Mycroft enquired and there was a cool kind of lightness to his tone. 

 

Lestrade ran an awkward kind of hand through his hair, then, “Yeah,” he started, “I was doing some paperwork one day and Sherlock burst in. He said that he wanted me to meet someone at a bar and get close to them. I told him I wouldn't because of you, but he seemed so…I don’t know,” and he ran a hand through his hair once more, before he decided on, “Like it was important to him, really important. So-So I went along with it.” Mycroft looked down and Lestrade, as he began to realize what damage he’d done, took hold of Mycroft’s hands with his and pleaded, “My, look I”-

 

But, “Don’t call me that,” Mycroft said coldly as he tugged his hands away from Lestrade’s. 

 

And Lestrade understood even more and he stared into Mycroft’s eyes even though the man wouldn't look back at him as he uttered, “Christ, I didn't have sex with her,” and he faltered momentarily when Mycroft jerked his head up to look at him, before he went on, “I didn't even kiss her.” Mycroft still didn't look convinced so Lestrade when Mycroft looked down once more, because he thought he finally got it now and he hated himself for what he’d done, tilted his chin up with his fingers so that Mycroft would have to look at him. Then he stated, “I didn't pretend to love you. I'm not him. I love you and I was so stupid to go along with what Sherlock wanted. I shouldn't have done it”-

 

“You could have anyone. Any man or woman that you wanted. That much I'm sure of and I don’t look…the way other people do,” Mycroft interrupted him, making himself vulnerable once more before he could even help it because this was Gregory and he wanted it so badly to work. 

 

“No you don’t,” Lestrade began and Mycroft’s heart fell and cracked slightly, “Because you look better,” Lestrade continued more firmly and as Mycroft’s mouth twitched into a small, shy smile Lestrade took the man’s hands once more and sang as he looked into those blue eyes, “You tell all the boys "No", makes you feel good, yeah. I know you're out of my league but that won't scare me away, oh, no,” Mycroft tried to pull his hands away now because they were in a public place after all but Lestrade just gripped onto them more tightly as he continued, “You've carried on so long, you couldn't stop if you tried it. You've built your wall so high that no one could climb it, but I'm gonna try,” Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly now, before he looked away, his face flushed. Lestrade just smiled, before, “Would you let me see beneath your beautiful? Would you let me see beneath your perfect? Take it off now, My, take it off now, My, I wanna see inside, would you let me see beneath your beautiful tonight?” And Lestrade’s smile just grew as Mycroft’s hands finally stopped fidgeting in his and became still as Mycroft looked back at him. “You let all the guys go, makes you feel good, don't it? Behind your Broadway show I heard a boy say, ‘please, don't hurt me.’” Mycroft ducked his head slightly now, his eyes somewhere just below Lestrade’s neck but Lestrade tilted his chin up once more with his fingers and forced the auburn haired man to look at him, “You've carried on so long, you couldn't stop if you tried it. You've built your wall so high, that no one could climb it. But I'm gonna try. Would you let me see beneath your beautiful? Would you let me see beneath your perfect? Take it off now, My, take it off now, My, I wanna see inside, would you let me see beneath your beautiful tonight, oh, tonight?” Mycroft’s cheeks burned once more and Lestrade smiled at him again, whilst he hoped that Mycroft really knew he meant every word. “See beneath, see beneath, I, tonight, I. I'm gonna climb on top your ivory tower, I'll hold your hand and then we'll jump right out, we'll be falling, falling but that's OK,' cause I'll be right here, I just wanna know. Would you let me see beneath your beautiful? Would you let me see beneath your perfect? Take it off now, My, take it off now, My, 'cause I wanna see inside, would you let me see beneath your beautiful tonight, oh, oh, oh, tonight? See beneath your beautiful, oh, tonight. We ain't perfect, we ain't perfect, no. Would you let me see beneath your beautiful tonight?”And as he finished he squeezed Mycroft’s hands tight with his, before he said earnestly, “I love every part of you. You have to believe me. And I promise that I’ll never do anything like that again. Sherlock will have to make a new friend if he wants to pull stuff like that again.”

“It was he who showed me the photograph,” Mycroft confessed quietly. 

 

Lestrade took a moment to think about that, before he uttered, “Bloody hell. If he hadn't already been shot then I would”-

 

“No you wouldn't,” Mycroft interrupted him knowingly as he squeezed Lestrade’s hands; because he knew that Lestrade was too kind to ever do such a thing. 

 

And, “No I wouldn't,” Lestrade agreed a little sheepishly as he squeezed back. But then he added with a bit of a growl, “But that doesn't mean I'm happy with what he did, considering that it was him who made me see how stupid I’d been about you.”

 

“Was it?” Mycroft questioned and he felt oddly touched as well as surprised now. 

 

“Yeah…” Lestrade admitted and before he could get too lost in the memory he explained further, “He made me understand…everything…but I guess I've gone and screwed it up now, haven’t I?” and he loosened his grip on Mycroft’s hands and made to pull away, but Mycroft held onto them and pulled Lestrade towards him a little more roughly than he’d intended, for Lestrade’s middle bumped into his. And Mycroft flushed again. Then, “My?” Lestrade urged. 

 

Mycroft stared into his eyes and then he confessed, because if this was going to work, really work, then Lestrade needed to understand more than everything, “I'm not used to this, it’s all”-

 

“We’ll take it slow. If you’re not comfortable with something then just say,” Lestrade said, determined not to lose Mycroft now. 

 

“But will it be enough for you?” Mycroft asked worriedly, for by being so slow with everything he was sure it would only serve to drive Lestrade to someone else. 

 

“Yes,” Lestrade breathed and now he pecked Mycroft reassuringly on the lips, before he said firmly, “You will always be enough for me Mycroft Holmes. In fact I should be the worried one. Look at me compared to you in your three-piece suit and your ‘minor’ government position”-

 

“It really is a minor position Gregory,” Mycroft scolded him gently, half torn between laughing and crying and he rubbed at his eyes now, not wanting to make a fool of himself but Lestrade-Gregory, always Gregory-lowered Mycroft’s hand with his and kissed him. 

 

And Mycroft kissed him back. 

 

*

 

“Ma-ry,” Sherlock managed croakily as soon as he came to, his throat dry as hell, and his body ached as he opened his eyes. 

 

John was there. His head had been resting down on Sherlock's hospital bed, by Sherlock's hand, but at Sherlock's voice it jerked up and his eyes lit up as he met Sherlock's. 

 

“Jo-hn, you angry still?” Sherlock questioned and John, who had not stopped thinking about what his last words might have been to Sherlock as soon as Sherlock had got shot, felt guilty once more. 

 

Then he said, “No, no of course not,” whilst he squeezed Sherlock's hand and then he stood a little breathlessly, let go of Sherlock's hand and said, “I'll go and get the nurse, all right?”

 

“’M not going anywhere,” Sherlock smiled as he looked at John and John grinned, before he left the private room that Sherlock was in. 

 

As he did so his mind shifted to what Sherlock had first said when he woke up-Mary-and it now occurred to him how strange that was, before all thought left him as Mary strode up to him at once. 

 

“I'm so sorry I couldn't come straight away when you called,” she said, as they hugged, and then as they pulled away from each other she asked urgently, “How is he?” whilst she squeezed John's hand, the same hand with which he had just touched Sherlock with moments before. 

 

“He's going to be okay, I think, he just woke now, I thought I better tell the nurse, bloody lucky to have survived though by my reckoning,” John reeled off as he suddenly began to realise how tired he felt. But as Mary smiled in relief John instinctively said, “I'm mad with you though,” and as something flickered in her eyes and her hand slipped off of his, he knew he had been right. Something was wrong. 

 

“Why?” Mary asked as lightly as she could, but she was hiding something John just knew it. 

 

“Because when he woke up, you know the first thing he said?” and she shook her head, “Mary,” and he took one last look at her, before he went to fetch the nurse. 

 

*

 

Sherlock ran away from hospital. John supposed that he should have been angry and dragged him straight back but this time he wasn't because otherwise he would have had to wait even longer to learn what was really going on. 

 

It was Mary’s fault. That’s what it came down to. Mary, who as he sat there in the dark only a shadow to her, which she thought belonged to Sherlock, the woman he’d nearly got engaged to, was revealed to be a secret agent. Magnussen had blackmailed her. And, it had been her, who had shot Sherlock. 

 

When Sherlock revealed that he was not the shadow and that it was really John, John watched as Mary’s face changed to one of desperate despair. She hadn't wanted John to know. He’d been good to her. She didn't want him to know that he’d lied to her, that she wasn't who she had told him she was. But this, she supposed, was perhaps another punishment for living her life in the way she had. Another sign that made her look destined for a life carved out of isolation and loneliness. 

 

Somehow they made it back to 221B and John, who’d been thinking the entire time, blurted out as he turned angrily to Mary as they made it upstairs, “Is everyone I've ever met a psychopath?” 

 

There was a brief pause, which was filled, as usual, by Sherlock, “Yes. Good that we've settled that. Now”-

 

“Shut up!” John yelled at him, “And stay shut up, because this is not funny, not this time!”

 

“I didn't say it was funny,” Sherlock pouted. 

 

But John ignored him and looked back at Mary. He was angry and sad and a whole load of other emotions, but when his voice came out it was all twisted up in a kind of quiet rage, “I was going to marry you,” he told her and Mary’s face became even more strained, her eyes desperate, “And even though I didn't you’re still my closest friend. What did I do to deserve you?”

 

But it wasn't Mary who replied. It was Sherlock, Sherlock who said, “Everything.”

 

And John felt angry now, with Sherlock, for getting in the way, so he stepped towards him and growled, “Sherlock, I told you, shut up.”

 

And if Sherlock noticed how angry and dark John’s eyes became as they swirled and tried to deal with everything that he was feeling in that moment he ignored the fact and instead said, “No, I mean it. Seriously. Everything, everything you've ever done is what you did.”

 

“Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine,” John threatened him, because he just wanted Sherlock to get the hell out and leave him and Mary to talk. 

 

But Sherlock ignored that too, because he needed to make John see, “You were a doctor who went to war. You got married to someone who is a sociopath and solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That’s me by the way,” and now he waved a hand, before he said, “Hello,” and if John had really been able to see it as something funny then he might have snorted at that point. “Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel.”

 

And Mrs. Hudson, who had snuck in unnoticed, to see what on earth all the racket was about now interjected with surprise in her tone, “It was my husband’s cartel. I was just typing!”

 

“And exotic dancing,” Sherlock added and John thought he really might punch him in a moment. 

 

“Sherlock Holmes, if you've been YouTubing”- Mrs. Hudson told him angrily. 

 

But Sherlock was annoyed that they’d gotten a bit off track now and he looked at John again, before he said rather firmly in a desperate fashion, “John, you’re addicted to a certain lifestyle! You’re abnormally attracted…to dangerous situations and people, so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you fell in love with, whilst I was away, conforms to a certain pattern?” 

 

“But she wasn't supposed to be like that,” John said now with his voice breaking, “She was supposed to be someone normal, someone to keep me grounded after everything, someone I can still talk to now you’re back…why is she like that?” because he didn't understand why this was happening to him, why everything was now happening to him, after nothing had for so long after the war.

 

“Because you chose her,” Sherlock said calmly as he pushed all his own emotion aside and fought the urge to comfort John. 

 

“Why is everything…always…my fault?” John burst out angrily and now he kicked a chair aside, which caused Mrs. Hudson to run, horrified, into the kitchen. 

 

“John, listen. Be calm and answer me. What is she?” Sherlock asked. 

 

“My lying best friend who I almost married,” John said without being able to help it. 

 

And Sherlock blew out a breath in frustration, before he attempted once more, “No. What is she?” 

 

“The woman who has lied to me since the day I met her.”

 

And Sherlock wanted to go over there and shake him but he tried to stay calm, as he persisted, “No. Not in this flat. Not in this room. Right here, right now. What…is…she?” 

 

“Okay,” John relented, “Your way. Always your way,” and now he placed a chair in front of Mary, before, “Sit,” he told her.

 

Mary looked at him with both fear and confusion in her eyes, and then she looked at Sherlock, before she looked back at John and asked almost warily, “Why?” 

 

“Because that’s where they sit!” John told her with frustration in his tone as he pointed angrily at the chair, for why couldn't she have just made his life easier for him? Why did she have to have this secret life and do this to him? Why? Why? Why? And then when she just kept on looking at him like that, as if she was the one who hadn't done anything wrong, he went on, “The people who come in here with their stories. The clients. That’s what you are now, Mary. You’re a client. This is where you sit and talk and this is where,” and now he pointed to his armchair and Sherlock’s, “We listen and we decide if we want you or not.” 

 

And that was when Mary sat and they sat and when Mary pulled out a memory stick and gave it to John. 

 

John took it from her and saw that it bore the initials, ‘A.G.R.A,’ on it, before he looked up at her for an explanation. 

 

“That,” and now she nodded to the memory stick in his hand and John instinctively curled his fingers around it. “Contains everything you want to know about me. Those are my real initials. But”- and now she faltered-“Once you read it, once you see what I've done,” and now her voice cracked, “You won’t want to be my friend any more. You won’t want to know me.”

 

John looked at her and then down at the memory stick and even when she’d gone, even when it was just him and Sherlock and Sherlock was trying to get him to talk and he even made him a cup of tea and even when Sherlock nearly collapsed and had to go back to hospital, John barely moved from his chair all night. Barely stopped staring at the memory stick and wondering. Once he almost booted up his laptop. But he lost his nerve and so he just sat there, staring and wondering, wondering and staring. Until morning came and he was still there. 

 

*

 

“Oh no,” Sherlock began as he opened the door of his parent’s house, where he and John were spending Christmas, to see Lestrade stood there, “What are you doing here Lestrade?” 

 

Lestrade in his best dark suit and carrying a bouquet of flowers in his hands smiled nervously at them.

 

John patted the man on the shoulder and then covered for Sherlock’s rudeness by saying, “What he means to say is, ‘Happy Christmas and please come in, it’s so nice to see you,’” and at the words Sherlock rolled his eyes, before he let go of the door and shuffled back to let Lestrade in. 

 

Lestrade stepped over the threshold and grinned at John gratefully. 

 

Sherlock meanwhile grimaced at the very sight of him as he took in the man’s emotions-apprehension, that was obviously to do with meeting Mycroft’s parents and excitement, perhaps something to do with seeing Mycroft on Christmas Day? And it was that last emotion that made Sherlock feel particularly yucky. So he shuddered a bit as he told Lestrade, “The Queen’s in the kitchen if you want to give him those,” and now he jerked his head at the red flowers. 

 

“Actually,” Lestrade began as his hands grasped the bottom of the bouquet nervously, “They’re for your mother,” and then he made his way hesitantly towards the kitchen. 

 

“My mother?” Sherlock exclaimed and now he looked at John with his brow furrowed for an explanation. 

 

John almost laughed at his expression, before he hissed in a low voice, “He’s trying to make a good impression.”

 

“A good impression?” Sherlock asked, far too loudly and John winced and rolled his eyes. Then, “What for?” Sherlock asked, evidently still confused, before something crossed his face and he said, “Ah,” in a prominent tone and then promptly grimaced again. 

 

John just chuckled and leaned up to kiss him. 

 

Lestrade noticed Mycroft as soon as he entered the kitchen and his eyes lit up at the sight of him sitting there by the table, looking slightly exasperated. “My?” he breathed a little hesitantly and Mycroft’s head, which had been resting a little wearily on top of his hand, jerked up, before a smile immediately crossed his face as he saw Lestrade. 

 

“Gregory,” he murmured sounding pleased, before he got up, crossed the room and pecked his boyfriend on the lips, whilst he simultaneously tried not to crush the flowers with his hands. 

 

Somewhere between looking at each other fondly Lestrade’s eyes shifted slightly and as Mycroft turned to follow his gaze he realised that Mummy Holmes was watching them from her spot by the stove. 

 

So he turned slightly, grasped Lestrade’s elbow with his hand and steered the man around the chairs by the kitchen table towards her. Then when they’d stopped he said promptly, “Mummy this is Gregory Lestrade.”

 

She smiled at Lestrade warmly and her smile turned into a beaming one when Lestrade passed her the flowers and said rather shyly, “These are for you.”

 

“Oh, how lovely of you,” she cried, before she gave him a wink and touched his elbow with hers as she said, “He just told me off for shortening his name so he must be very pleased with you.”

 

“Mummy!” Mycroft cried in horror, a blush spreading across his face as Mummy Holmes giggled and Lestrade grinned. 

 

*

 

It was a little while later and after dinner and Sherlock and Mycroft both found themselves smoking outside when Mummy Holmes stuck her head out of the door, as fast as anything, and asked sharply, “Are you two smoking?” 

 

Both brothers whipped around at once and hid their cigarettes behind their backs, before Mycroft cried, “No!” at the same time that Sherlock said automatically, “It was Mycroft!”

 

And then when she’d retreated back inside and they were safe again Mycroft told Sherlock, “I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline.”

 

Sherlock felt both confused and amused as he replied a little hesitantly, “I…decline your kind offer.”

 

“I shall pass on your regrets,” Mycroft informed him earnestly. 

 

Then, “What was it?” Sherlock asked. 

 

“M.I.6,” Mycroft replied without any hesitation, “They want to place you back into Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months time.”

 

And now Sherlock really was confused so he asked, “Then why don’t you want me to take it?” 

 

“It’s tempting,” Mycroft agreed, “But on balance, you have more utility closer to home.” 

 

“Utility!” Sherlock cried out indignantly, before he added, “How do I have utility?” 

 

“Here be dragons,” Mycroft got out, before he began to cough on his cigarette, then, “This isn't agreeing with me, I'm going in,” he said. 

 

“You need low tar,” Sherlock told him, before he added with an amused expression on his face, “You still smoke like a beginner.”

 

“Also,” Mycroft began, not quite at the door, “Your loss would break my heart.”

 

Sherlock immediately choked and then spluttered out, “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?” 

 

“Merry Christmas?” Mycroft suggested. 

 

“You hate Christmas,” Sherlock retorted honestly. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft suddenly realised, before he said lightly, “Perhaps there was something in the punch.”

 

“Clearly. Go and have some more,” Sherlock told him.

 

*

 

John meanwhile had entered the living room where Mary, who had come on his invitation, was now reading a book that Mummy Holmes had written. 

 

Sherlock’s father quickly made his exit when John entered, saying something about, ‘seeing whether anyone needs any help with anything,’ as he did so. 

 

John walked across to her and Mary asked as he did so, “Are we really going to do this now?” without barely looking up from her book. 

 

So John slid the memory stick that she’d given him all those months ago, from his pocket and tossed it in the fire. 

 

That got her attention, as he knew it would and she said questioningly, “John” whilst she placed the book down on the arm of the chair. 

 

“I’ve been thinking hard about what I want to say to you,” he began as he stepped in front of her and she stood now and looked at him apprehensively. And she looked so nervous that he instinctively touched her arm with his hand, before he went on, “And I decided that, in the end, it was really only me reading that memory stick stopping us from having any kind of relationship with each other. So I decided not to read it.” Her mouth opened a little now, but before she could speak he went on, “No matter who you are you’ve helped me so much Mary, and I just want to be your friend and help you back when I can. So can we do that?” 

 

“John I”- she began, before she broke off because she really didn't know what else to say. 

 

But he just said, “Don’t say anything,” and gestured for him to hug her. 

 

She did so and they hugged each other tightly for a moment, but then she went limp in his arms. 

 

John panicked for a moment, before his medical training kicked in and he dragged her as carefully as he could to the settee, before he lied her down on it. 

 

Then Sherlock swept in and said, Good,” which made John turn to him and exclaim, “What?!” before he followed the man to the kitchen to find Mycroft and Lestrade passed out, their heads almost touching on the kitchen table. 

 

“Bloody hell,” John whispered. 

 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said after he checked his brother’s pulse, “I spiked the punch but they’ll wake up in a bit and be perfectly okay.” 

 

“Um, no,” John corrected, “You might want to explain this a bit more.”

 

And Sherlock sighed a bit, before he leant back against the kitchen desktop, and then he reluctantly told John about how when he’d first come out of hospital, or escaped was more like it, he’d gone to a restaurant for some proper food and met Magnussen there. Then when it turned out that Magnussen didn't have any clever technology in his glasses, and boy did Sherlock hesitate there because he didn't want to say that he’d got anything wrong, he’d realised that the only option he really had was to see the vaults at Appledore, Magnussen’s country house. So he’d made Magnussen an offer.

 

“What offer?” John asked a little hesitantly, because he was certain that he didn't want to hear Sherlock’s answer. 

 

“My brother,” Sherlock replied and then when John squeezed his eyes shut momentarily and swore Sherlock slid Mycroft’s laptop out of its case, which had been resting against the table leg, before he marched out of the back of the house as he carried it, with John quickly following him. 

 

Then, “Is that a helicopter?” John exclaimed and Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, before he asked if John had brought his gun like he’d suggested. And after a bit of an exclamation John confirmed that yes, he’d brought it. 

 

*

 

When the helicopter had gone and they’d entered the room where Magnussen was calmly sitting on the settee having a drink and watching something, Magnussen nodded curtly at the guards that had accompanied them and then they left. 

 

“I would offer you a drink but its very rare and expensive,” Magnussen began as he took another sip. 

 

Then Sherlock sat down next to him and placed the laptop in between them, whilst John remained standing and watching, his body tense, before Sherlock noticed that Magnussen had been watching a recording of John nearly being burnt alive in the bonfire and said with a bit of false surprise, “Oh, it was you,” as if he was rather glad that they’d cleared that matter up. 

 

“Yes of course,” Magnussen began breezily, before, “Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr. Holmes.” And Sherlock grunted. “The drugs thing I never believed for a moment. Anyway you wouldn't care if it was exposed,” and here Sherlock pulled a, ‘I hate to agree with you but I kind of do,’ face. “But look how you care about John Watson.” As he’d been talking John had slowly got closer and closer to the image of Sherlock pulling him out of the bonfire and by this point his mouth was slightly open and his eyes were fixed on it entirely. But at the words, “Your damsel in distress,” John turned back to Magnussen. 

 

Then he got out, “You-put me-in a fire for leverage?” as he tried not to shake with rage. 

 

“Oh, I’d never have let you burn Dr. Watson,” and now Magnussen put his drink down, “I had people standing by,” and now he got to his feet, “I'm not a murderer. Unlike Mary.” And there was a pause where John just wished he could kill the man. Then, “Let me explain how leverage works Dr. Watson,” Magnussen began, before he went to the screen, got rid of the image and turned back to them and John turned to face him. “For those who understand these things Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in this country.” And John, not liking this at all, closed his mouth and gritted his teeth together. “Well, apart from me,” and now as John tilted his head, Magnussen stepped forward, before he began to reel off, “Mycroft’s pressure point is his little detective brother Sherlock. Sherlock’s pressure point is his husband John Watson. John Watson’s pressure point is Mary. I own Mary. I own Mycroft,” and now he went and sat back down on the settee. 

 

“It’s an exchange not a gift,” Sherlock muttered as he pushed the laptop towards him and then stood up to join John. 

 

“Forgive me,” Magnussen started as he picked up the laptop and began to stroke it, “But I already seem to have it.”

 

“It’s password protected,” Sherlock explained, before, “In return for the password you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to the woman I know as Mary.”

 

“Oh, she’s bad that one,” Magnussen began and his lip curled up in delight now, “So many dead people,” he breathed and once more John had to try very hard to suppress everything, “You should see what I've seen.”

 

“I don’t need to see it,” John growled automatically. 

 

“You might enjoy it though,” Magnussen told him, “I enjoy it.”

 

And before John could do or say anything that might jeopardize the whole thing Sherlock said smoothly, “Then why don’t you show us?” 

 

Magnussen looked down for a moment, then, “Show you Appledore?” he said, “The secret vaults? Is that what you want?” 

 

“I want everything you've got on Mary,” Sherlock said firmly. 

 

And Magnussen chuckled, before he confessed, “You know I honestly expected something good.”

 

“I think you’ll find the contents of that laptop”-

 

“GPS locator,” Magnussen interrupted him, before he told them as if he were simply reeling off a long line of facts, “By now your brother will have noticed the theft,” and now he looked up towards the ceiling, “Security services will be converging on this house,” and now he looked down, “Having arrived they’ll find the laptop’s secret information in my hands. And they’ll have every just implication to search my vaults. They will discover further information of this kind and I’ll be imprisoned. You will be exonerated. Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a very long time. He’ll be a very, very”- and now he swilled the remnants of the drink around in his glass-“Proud big brother,” before he finished it off. 

 

“The fact that you know it’s going to happen doesn't make you want to stop it?” Sherlock asked. 

 

And Magnussen put his glass down, before he said, “No, why am I smiling? Ask me.”

 

So, “Why are you smiling?” John asked when Sherlock showed no signs of doing so. 

 

“Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake, which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves. And everything he holds dear.” Then he stood up and said, “Let me show you the Appledore vaults,” and after a moment’s hesitation they followed him across to a set of brown, wooden double doors. “The entrance to my vaults,” Magnussen explained once they were there, stood behind him, “This is where I keep you all,” and now he pulled the doors open to reveal a bright, white room with nothing besides a single chair in it and Sherlock’s heart jerked in his chest as he began to realise what he’d done. 

 

But John, even though he had a very bad feeling inside him now, still wanted to believe, so he said, “Okay, so where are the vaults then?” 

 

“Vaults?” Magnussen questioned as he turned towards them, “What vaults? There are no vaults beneath this building,” and now he sat down on the chair, before he pointed to his temple, “There’re all in here. The Appledore vaults are my mind palace. You know about mind palaces, don’t you Sherlock?” And Sherlock looked a bit sick now. “How to store information so you never forget it. By picturing it,” and the bad feeling in John’s chest grew. “I sit here, I close my eyes,” and now Magnussen did just that, “And down I go to my vaults. I can go anywhere inside my vaults, my memories, I’ll look at the files on Mary.” And Sherlock took a steadying breath now, before he closed his own eyes. But John watched as Magnussen gestured picking out a file with his hands. “Hmm, now this is one of my favourites. Oh, it’s so exciting,” and now he pretended to flick through the file with his hands, before he laughed and said, “All those wet jobs for the CIA. Ohh, she’s gone a bit freelance now. Bad girl,” and as he laughed again John seriously wanted to do so much more than punch him. “Ah, she is so wicked. I can really see why you like her,” and now he mimicked putting the file back inside a filing cabinet and closing it, before he opened his eyes and stated, “You see?” 

 

“So there are no documents,” John got out, before he had to clear his throat, “You don’t actually have anything here?” 

 

And Magnussen replied casually, “Sometimes I send out for something if I really need to, but mostly I just remember it all,” whilst Sherlock inwardly cursed himself.

 

Yet John stated, “I don’t understand.”

 

“You should have that on a t-shirt,” Magnussen told him. 

 

“You just remember it all?” John asked. 

 

“Its all about knowledge. Everything is. Knowing is only”-

 

“But if you just know it then you don’t have proof,” John interrupted him, still clinging on to any tiny bit of hope that he could find because this couldn't really be as bad as his brain was telling him it was. Could it?

 

“Proof?” Magnussen questioned and he sounded as if he was a little astonished by John’s stupidity now, “What would I need proof for? I'm in news, you moron, I don’t have to prove it. I just have to print it. Speaking of news,” and he got up now and Sherlock almost slumped where he stood, “You’ll both be heavily featured tomorrow. Trying to sell state secrets to me. Tsk tsk.” And he looked at his watch now, before he said, “Let’s go outside. They’ll be here shortly. Can’t wait to see you arrested.”

 

As soon as he’d gone John turned to Sherlock and asked urgently in as low a voice as he could, “Sherlock, do we have a plan?” But there was no response, so, “Sherlock?” he said. Again no response so John resignedly went to join Magnussen outside. Sherlock meanwhile just closed his eyes. He’d never felt more stupid. He’d never got himself in a more ridiculous situation. And he didn't know how to get out. 

 

“They’re taking their time, aren't they?” Magnussen asked as John joined him. 

 

But John just said, “I still don’t understand,” for maybe if he kept Magnussen talking he’d slip up or something and he could find a way out of this. 

 

“And there’s the back of the t-shirt,” Magnussen said as Sherlock joined them. 

 

But John persisted, “You just know things. How does that work?” 

 

Magnussen though wasn't going to talk about what John wanted him to. Instead he said, “I just love your little soldier face. I’d like to punch it,” and John looked at him in disbelief now, “Bring it over here a minute. Come on.” John couldn't help it; he didn't know what to do so he looked at Sherlock and when Sherlock just nodded ever so slightly John just stared at him. But, “Bring me your face,” Magnussen demanded quietly.

 

So John, with every inch of him screaming not to, went to stand a bit closer to Magnussen. 

 

“Lean forward a bit and stick your face out,” and now John hesitated so, “Please?” Magnussen added mischievously. Then, “Can I flick it?” he asked. 

 

John couldn't believe this was actually happening and he almost laughed in spite of himself for a moment, before he shook his head ever so slightly. 

 

“Can I flick your face?” Magnussen asked, but he didn't wait for an answer and when he flicked John’s face, John stared at him with hard eyes. “I just love doing this. I could do it all day,” and now he looked at Sherlock, who was trying so hard to stay still and not intervene, before he looked back at John. “Now, it works like this, John,” he said. “I know who Mary hurt and killed,” and now he flicked John’s face, “I know where to find people who hate her,” another flick, “I know where they live,” another flick, “I know their phone numbers,” another flick and John doesn't know how much longer he can take, “All in my mind palace. All of it. I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down. And I will. Unless you let me flick your face,” and now he flicked John’s face three times in quick succession. “This is what I do to people. This is what I do to whole countries,” another flick, “Just because I know. Can I do your eyes now? See if you can keep them open, eh?” and now he flicks John’s eye, which shuts automatically and makes Magnussen giggle. “Come on, keep it open.”

 

But John cannot help it; he looks at Sherlock now and almost pleads, “Sherlock.” For he can’t take this any more. He just can’t. 

 

But, “Let him,” Sherlock says heavily, “I'm sorry. Just, let him.”

 

And so John reluctantly turns back to Magnussen as the man says, “Hmm? Come on. Eye open,” and now he flicks John’s eye twice and both times it closes and Magnussen’s laugh grows louder each turn. Then, “It’s difficult isn't it?” he admits, before he confesses thoughtfully, “Janine managed to once. She makes the funniest noises.”

 

But he didn't manage to say anything more, for a helicopter sounded in the air and John didn't know whether to be more relieved or more terrified about what was still to come. 

 

“Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stand away from that man!” came Mycroft’s booming voice from the helicopter, but neither John nor Sherlock moved. 

 

“Here we go Mr. Holmes,” Magnussen yelled over the noise, before he raised a hand to look at the helicopter more clearly. 

 

So, “To clarify Appledore’s vaults only exist in your mind? Nowhere else? Just there?” Sherlock cried out hurriedly but clearly.

 

“They’re not real,” Magnussen replied as he watched the helicopter still, “Never have been,” and Sherlock nodded now. 

 

“Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, step away!” came Mycroft’s voice again and he sounded a little more desperate now. 

 

But Magnussen waved his hands and called, “It’s fine. They’re harmless.”

 

“Sherlock what do we do?” John asked desperately, whilst he felt more and more terrified as the seconds passed. 

 

But it wasn't Sherlock who replied. It was Magnussen, “Nothing,” he said, “There’s nothing to be done. Oh, I'm not a villain. I have no evil plan. I'm a businessman, acquiring assets, you happen to be one of them. Sorry,” and now he turned his head towards Sherlock, “No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr. Holmes.” 

 

“Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stand away from that man. Do it now!” Mycroft’s voice said, as if this was really their final chance now. 

 

And Sherlock knew it was, so coming to the only answer he had he said roughly, “Oh, do your research. I'm not a hero. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Merry Christmas,” and then everything happened all at once. Sherlock shot Magnussen with John’s gun, Magnussen fell at once, and Sherlock dropped the gun and put his hands in the air, before he cried, not looking at John, “Get away from me John! Stay back!” his voice frightened and desperate. 

 

“Christ Sherlock!” John exclaimed as he flung his hands in the air.

 

“Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes. Do not fire,” Mycroft commanded automatically. 

 

“Oh…Christ…Sherlock,” John moaned as the truth of what had happened began to sink in more.

 

And Sherlock turned his head towards him, then as their eyes fixed on one another, “Give my love to Mary. Tell her she’s safe now,” he said, before he got to his knees. 

 

Whilst in the helicopter Mycroft took off his ear piece and breathed, “Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?” 

 

*

 

When Mycroft awoke it took him only a couple of seconds to remember why his stomach ached, his body felt tense and his head stiff and sore from the position that he’d fallen asleep in. 

 

It should have felt good actually, because last night Lestrade had gently insisted that he stay with him and though they hadn't done much more than kiss and cuddle it had been nice. And so waking up with Lestrade’s arms wrapped around his middle, his warm breath tickling the back of his neck and the steady thump-thump of his heart beating at Mycroft’s back should have been nice too. But it wasn't. Everything was off because today was the day that Mycroft had to say goodbye to his little brother. 

 

It was the best that Mycroft had managed for him. Sending him on that dangerous M.I.6 mission after all, where Sherlock, in six months time would meet his end. 

 

John had guessed that the mission wasn't something Sherlock would come out of. He’d visited Mycroft at the Diogenes Club and when they’d gone to the Strangers Room he’d asked, “He’s not going to come back is he? I mean, alive?” 

 

Various answers had raced through Mycroft’s head. He could have looked up at John and said something vague or uncertain. Or he could have told him the truth in a cold but even fashion. But in the end the only thing that had escaped Mycroft’s lips was a sigh. He supposed though that it had been answer enough. For just moments later John had nodded steadily, before he had left. Mycroft was glad that John hadn't yelled at him and even more glad that he hadn't accused him of not doing enough because, quite simply, Mycroft had already done as much as he could. Sherlock’s actions had left him with very little possibilities. 

 

So Mycroft suppressed a sigh so as to not wake Lestrade, slipped out of bed quietly and then got dressed. 

 

By the time Lestrade woke up feeling a little dazed Mycroft had already left. 

 

*

 

“Can you give us a moment?” Sherlock asked quietly and then when his brother and another man stepped aside it was just him and John again. The way it should be. 

 

John had been trying to think of what he wanted to say at this moment ever since he’d known it was going to happen. But now it was here any words that he’d previously thought of left his mind. Instead all he saw was Sherlock. Sherlock asking him, ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ Sherlock’s expression when they’d just moved in together and John had unintentionally complained about his mess, Sherlock running after a taxi, laughing, Sherlock singing ‘Price Tag,’ Sherlock coming into his room after all the Moriarty stuff and making sure he was all right. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock and now Sherlock here, waiting to say goodbye to him. 

 

As Sherlock stared at John all his words were in his head. He wanted to joke that perhaps John was supposed to be with Mary after all. But mostly he wanted to say thank you. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for saving me every time. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for loving me. Thank you, thank you, thank you. But the words didn't seem to want to leave his mouth and so at John’s expression, one that told him quite clearly that he knew he wouldn't be seeing Sherlock again, Sherlock gave him the only thing he had left to give. Hope, when he sang, “There is freedom within, there is freedom without. Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup. There’s a battle ahead many battles are lost. But you’ll never see the end of the road while you’re travelling with me. Hey now, hey now don’t dream it’s over. Hey now, hey now when the world comes in. They come; they come to build a wall between us. We know they won’t win.” John smiled tentatively at him now, his eyes hard but shiny with tears and Sherlock grabbed his hands as he continued, “Now I'm towing my car, there’s a hole in the roof. My possessions are causing me suspicion but there’s no proof. In the paper today, tales of war and of waste, but you turn right over to the TV page. Hey now, hey now don’t dream it’s over. Hey now, hey now when the world comes in. They come; they come to build a wall between us. We know they won’t win,” and here he squeezed John’s hands. “Now I'm walking again to the beat of a drum and I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart. Only shadows ahead, barely clearing the roof. Get to know the feeling of liberation and release,” and he let go of John’s hands now, before, “Hey now, hey now don’t dream it’s over. Hey now, hey now when the world comes in. They come; they come to build a wall between us. We know they won’t win. Well, don’t let them win. Hey now, hey now don’t let them win. Don’t let them win, yeah.”

 

“Prat,” John sniffed, though he smiled a little as he wiped away a single tear that had escaped his eye, before he practically threw himself at Sherlock and hugged him tight. He could feel Mycroft and the other man watching but he didn't care. This was the last time he was going to get to hug Sherlock, to feel the thump of his heart underneath his all too thin frame. _‘The last time, the last time,’_ the blood that pounded through his ears seemed to say as he clung on even tighter. 

 

Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head and then they let go of each other. For a moment they just stared into each other’s eyes, drunk in each other’s faces and hoped that they’d never forget anything about the other and then that was that. It was over and Sherlock was on the plane. 

 

But then something happened. Something big and bad enough, for Sherlock to be recalled at once. For after taking over every screen with a cry of, “Did you miss me?” Moriarty was back!


End file.
